


rain shadow, evergreen

by frak-all (or_ryn)



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: (i know), 69 (Sex Position), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Asshole to Awkward to Understanding Gentle and Tall, Ben is in an RV, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Loneliness and Resilience, Mild Praise Kink, Multimedia elements, National parks are for lovers so these two better figure it out, Olympic National Park, Oral Sex, Rey is motorcycle camping, Smut, Yearning, big 'fuckable redwood' energy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-28
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:40:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 33,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21563143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/or_ryn/pseuds/frak-all
Summary: “Do I know you?” he sneers coldly, and Rey gapes up at him, reeling.She thinks briefly on the Hoh parking lot and how he’d nearly run her over, on the Hall of Mosses and how he’d stormed down the trail, and on how apparently none of that was enough to make a lasting impression. She snaps her mouth shut.“No,” she replies, equally cold. “You don’t.”Rey’s camping in the Pacific Northwest. Funnily enough, so is Ben. They don't exactly hit it off.
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Rey, Poe Dameron & Finn & Rey, Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 433
Kudos: 1141





	1. fear is a liar

**Author's Note:**

> this is unbeta'd and a mess. cc is welcome, as always. i may or may not respond to it directly, but it's welcome. 
> 
> one thing to note: i'm playing with some css in this fic, especially re: text messages. if you're reading this off of ao3, then things probably aren't gonna look right for you, since i'm not using pseudoclasses. sorry ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯. also, i fully understand multimedia stuff (even multimedia lite™, like this) is not everyone's cup of tea. again, ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯. no hard feelings if you opt out because of it. 
> 
> lastly, and most importantly, [support your national parks!!!](https://www.nationalparks.org/support)  
> 

The green is what gets to her. At least at first. 

Then there’s the water. Cool. Clear. It seems to hover in the air, dotting her chin, her cheeks, her eyelashes. 

The tiny glistening droplets are like pinpricks. Diamonds. 

Below, the fire licks, pops, and crackles. Ahead, the tide rushes forward, back, again. A brush of wind. Swirling, brisk, and salt-rich. And then a hand. It reaches out, long fingers stalling millimeters from her own. 

And Rey—she thinks she might just take it. Might just be reaching out, too.

But we’re getting ahead of ourselves, really. 

There’s miles to go yet. 

  


**҉ ҉ ҉**

  


958 miles prior, and she is still in Jakku, Nevada. Still in Jakku, Nevada, just as she’s always been. 

Always been isn’t always will be, though. 

Rey has a plan. An itinerary, even. 

Her fingers drum against the slick blue plastic broom handle, tapping out an absent, eager beat. The broom is merely an instrument to pass the time at this point. Her floors have long been swept. Just as the counters have long been wiped, the fridge cleaned out, the toilet scrubbed, the closets emptied. She’s even changed the air filter for the first time since she’s lived in this ratty old shoebox apartment. _Had_ lived in, anyway. 

And now—

Her bags are packed. Her bike is ready. 

All that’s left is one final Craigslist buyer, a woman who’s called and sworn up, down, and sideways that she’s still on her way. Soon, Rey’s faithful sleeper sofa will be gone, a memory dispersed, just like all of the other ramshackle items she’d painstakingly collected over the past seven years.

Chairs and tables and plates and cups and bowls and books and— _everything_. So many things.

Things.

Just things. 

She’s coming to terms with it. Slowly, but she is. And thinking on it, like she has been, makes her halfway tempted to cut her losses and run the couch to the curb, casting it back from whence it came, but the potential gas money would be nice. 

Rey makes a face. 

More than nice, really. It’s factored into her budget. 

The minute hand on her watch ticks and circles, creeping forward, and right as she’s about to give in, gas money be damned, she gets a text.

(775) 555-1138  
  
**Yesterday** 9:54 PM  
Yes! For sure, will b there at 10 on the dot. CAn do cash or venmo   
**Today** 10:06 AM  
we still on for today?  
  
**Read** 10:07 AM **Today** 11:27 AM  
Hey   
i think i’m here  
so, so, SO sorry 4 the wait. you’re 2187, right?

Rey hesitates over her phone. 

**Today** 11:29 AM

yep, you've got it

come on up! **Delivered**

It feels like an ending. 

She’s never chosen one of those before. 

  


**҉ ҉ ҉**

  


US-95 is an endless expanse of sun, sky, and asphalt.

Traffic, too, in parts. 

Rey’s used to bobbing and weaving around eighteen-wheelers and barreling past commuter cars that stick to a safe seven miles over the speed limit. Now, with her bike packed to the brim with her few remaining possessions, she drives slowly. Steadily. 

Like everyone else just inching along. 

Around one o’clock in the afternoon, she pulls off at a Shell station two miles outside of Humboldt County. She tops up her mostly-full gas tank. Stops and stretches, hands rising high above her head, falling down to brush her feet. Her thick leather boots are dusty, dirty, sandy; but they’re sturdy, too. 

She unclips one of her large Nalgenes and chugs until she’s downed almost sixteen ounces. Eats a handful of warm, undersalted homemade trail mix. Goes to the bathroom and refills her water from the tap, then makes sure the lid is secured nice and tight. 

Outside, she opens the map she’d downloaded on her phone. Rechecks the straps of her hard case saddlebags, the air pressure in her tires. 

Almost moves to check the oil, too, except she changed it herself not three days ago. 

Everything is alright. 

Everything is fine. 

Great, even. She’s on vacation! She’s sold all her stuff and is moving, for good, across state lines. 

Rey stands next to her bike, shoulders stiff. She’s struck, not-quite-embarrassed, not-quite- _not_ -embarrassed, by a scene from the first movie she’d ever owned, back when she and Finn were both newly emancipated, huddled around the old Dell laptop she’d gutted and painstakingly rebuilt, squeezed into a space that was old and cramped and entirely, blissfully their own. 

_This is it._

_If I take one more step, it’ll be the farthest from home I’ve ever been._

The farthest from home she’s ever been. 

Rey nearly snorts. 

What a thought. Ridiculous and far too self-indulgent.

The asphalt stretches out before her, same as ever, and she squints, hand raised to shield her eyes from bright, hard glare of the sun. The blue and red US-95 North sign looms ahead, off in the distance, just within her line of sight. A mirage, maybe. A figment. A ghost. 

Things all her wants usually are.

Sweat beads at her temples. Damp hair sticks to the crown of her head and nape of her neck. Her cheeks heat, and not just from the sun. 

This is it, though. Really. The farthest from home she’s ever been. 

But—that’s also not exactly true, is it? 

The farthest she’s been, yes, but home isn’t a place. And it certainly isn’t Jakku. Not anymore, anyway. Perhaps not ever. 

Rey pulls her phone out of her jacket pocket, types out a quick message in her group chat with Finn and Poe, and presses send. 

After that, all that’s left is forward. 

So she drives. 

  


**҉ ҉ ҉**

  


✨frands✨  
  
**Today** 1:17 PM Still alive  
7 hours til Portland  
See you fools on Friday!! x  
Peanut  
You're crazy for doing this, Peanut  
But we can’t wait to see you. And camp (!!!) with everyone  Send updates as you can

  


**҉ ҉ ҉**

  


“Still alive?” 

It’s Poe, and his voice is far too chipper for this early on a Sunday. 

“Still alive,” Rey confirms, head bent over as she absently dries her hair with a towel far softer and fluffier than any she’s ever owned. 

Her phone is propped against a lamp to her left, and Poe’s stupidly charming face fills most of its cracked screen. She clocks Finn stumbling around in the background, clambering about their kitchen like the morning person she knows he is not. He’s making coffee, supposedly, but he’s likely just banging around pots and pans.

“Your parents are lovely, Poe.” Rey gives the towel another shake, then straightens with a smile. “What happened to you?”

“Hey!” Poe raises a finger and throws on an imitation of his stern managerial voice. “Take that back or you’re fired.”

“I don’t work for you.” She rolls her eyes as Poe opens his mouth to protest. “ _Yet_ , anyway. Besides, everything I said is true.” 

“Well, yeah. _Obviously._ Doesn’t mean you should say it.”

Rey shrugs, smiling a little wider.

She hadn’t been kidding. Shara and Kes Dameron were indeed lovely. Sweet and nice. Scarily nice, actually. And kind. 

Kind without reservation. Without expecting anything in return. Rey isn’t used to that type of behavior from people their age and, if she’s honest, doesn’t entirely trust it.

She’d pulled up to their large suburban home two hours later than planned, and not only had they _not_ let her set up her tent in the backyard— _“Please, dear, like we’d ever allow_ that _!”_ —but they’d had dinner waiting in the oven and towels laid out in the bathroom and an entire room prepared just for her. 

She’d moved her threadbare daypack into it, depositing it next to the full-sized bed, and smelled fresh, recently-laundered linens. On the bedside table, a wifi password had been left out for her. Crisp black letters on monogrammed stationery. EndorStr!ke456. 

The room had navy walls with stark white trim, and large engineering prints of aeronautical parts tacked up with clear plastic push pins. There’d been a clunky old computer monitor on a large Ikea desk. A scuffed-up soccer ball near a closet and bright orange cleats hanging, tied, from its handle. The complete works of William Shakespeare with _several_ dog-eared pages. And, to her immense and everlasting delight, a truly mortifying high school prom photo. 

When Rey’d finally fallen into bed that night, snuggling into the pillowtop mattress and fluffy down comforter, a cluster of small, glow-in-the-dark stars shone faintly above her on the ceiling. The green hum was soft. Quiet. A memory of light. She’d stared and stared for what must have been hours.

It had been nice imagining. Terrible, too.

Rey shakes her head, and a strand of wet hair clings stubbornly to her cheek. 

At this point, Finn lumbers up behind Poe, resting his chin on the man’s shoulder. Poe obliges Finn’s unspoken request, extending his phone before him until they’re both in frame. 

“How’d y’sleep, Peanut?” Finn asks through a massive yawn. He lifts a steaming mug of coffee he doesn’t drink.

Rey sits down on the bed. “ _So_ well. Like a princess. Or a rich person.” She pauses, grinning. “Poe was spoiled growing up.”

Finn blows at his coffee and nods. He takes a tentative sip, then sputters as her words register. He looks at her, wide-eyed. Incredulous. 

“Wait,” he starts, but Poe is both clever and far more awake than Finn is, and has already begun moving, phone twisting and turning away. 

She can’t see him at all, but she can still hear him just fine. 

“They put you _in his room?”_

“They did!” Rey shrieks, bouncing on the mattress. Poe groans and extends his phone out even farther, well away from Finn’s reach. “The guest room is being painted, apparently.”

“You’re _kidding_ _._ ” There’s a clang—Finn’s coffee mug, assumedly—and the picture shakes as Finn jostles for the phone. “Okay, no. Give it over, Poe. I have to see this.”

“ _Absolutely_ not.”

Finn clambers for Poe’s wrist, and Rey’s view of their living room whirls, blurs, and jerks. 

Poe shouts, using his free hand to cover Finn’s face and push at his forehead. Finn curses, then licks at Poe’s palm. 

Her two favorite fools continue to scuffle around their apartment like a pair of dumb, oversized teenagers, and Rey laughs, delighted. 

“Boys, boys, _boys._ I know it’s early, but come on.” She grins as they continue scuffling. “You honestly think I didn’t take pictures?” 

Because she did. She absolutely did. Twenty-one of them last night on the small waterproof digital camera she’d brought with her _and_ on her cell phone. 

Taking advantage of the wifi the Dameron’s have so graciously supplied her with, she sends her favorite through their group chat. A gangly seventeen-year-old Poe with slicked back hair, a blue steel pout, and far too-large white tuxedo jacket. 

A “Delivered” message appears under the picture a second later. In the digital distance, Finn’s cellphone dings. 

Poe sighs in defeat, Finn crows in triumph, and Rey carries the warm, fond feeling with her through breakfast, across Oregon, into Washington, up I-5 and along 101-N. 

The road keeps winding. She keeps driving. 

She’ll get there soon enough. 

  


**҉ ҉ ҉**

  


She’s forty-five minutes out. 

The air is crisp. The cell service is shit. 

Rey meditates on the rapidly passing landscape, feeling something stretch in her chest. Tight, expanding. She’s not even there yet, and it’s already like she’s in another world. On another planet. 

Farmland, wood cabins, satellite dishes. Large coniferous pines and great, looming hemlocks. 

She takes a deep breath, inhaling until that thing in her chest pulls taut and tighter still. The air actually feels different here. On her skin. In her lungs. 

_She_ feels different. 

Different.

Rey snorts, and pulls over at the nearest BP. 

Here she is waxing poetic like a regular Jack Kerouac or something. On the road. Outside of a gas station. 

She hasn’t even gotten to the park yet, and she’s already blubbering. What a mess. 

A man in a light denim jacket and matching jeans exits the outdoor restroom, heading for a logging truck parked next to her bike, and Rey scrubs a hand over her face. 

Bathroom. Right. 

She uses the toilet and washes her hands, refilling her water bottle from the tap while she’s at it. 

It’s about two in the afternoon and overcast, a temperate 70 degrees that feels patently absurd for late June. When she returns to her motorcycle, she takes a few minutes to make sure everything is tied exactly as she left it. 

Off to the left, by the road, there’s a white sign with hand-painted red block letters reading _CAMP WOOD - $5_. Next to that sign is, surprisingly enough, camp wood. It’s bundled and stacked together in a neat, impressive pile.

She almost walks over, curious to see if it’s dry, if it’s treated, but she doesn’t. 

She’s stalling, and she doesn’t know why. 

Nerves? Excitement? 

Whatever it is, she has to stop herself from wasting more time. Yes, it’s beautiful here. New and different. But this is just the precursor. The main event is still out there, waiting for her. What will _that_ be like? What will _she_?

She’s been planning this trip—her _first_ trip—for months. Has been thinking about this park for years. Has dreamt of the coast for even longer. 

And, according to her offline map, she’s almost there. Only a short ride away. Rey takes a deep breath, then pushes out a smile, fumbling with her phone. 

This is a good thing. A _great_ thing. 

She sends off one last text, pulls on her helmet, and drives. Again. Until she’s home.

  


**҉ ҉ ҉**

  


✨frands✨  
  
**Today** 2:23 PM  
Still alive  
Service is spotty. Will check as I can, but don’t be shocked if you don’t hear from me for a few days.  
I can't believe I'm almost there  
**Delivered** Peanut  
Have fun, Peanut, and be safe  
We love you 💚  
Poe  
👍✌️  
See ya in Rialto 😘😘😘🏍️🌲🏕️🌊🍻🔦🌠🍳🔥✨😎😎❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

  


**҉ ҉ ҉**

  


It takes her a fraction of a second to choose between the signs. 

The smart thing, of course, would be to head to the campground. To claim one of the limited first-come, first-serve spots, set up her tent, and then go explore. 

Rey is smart. Objectively. Factually.

It’s just that today, for whatever reason, she’s also an idiot. 

Olympic National Park, Hoh Rain Forest: Next left. 

Olympic National Park, Hoh Campground: Next right.

Her bike leans left, and off she goes.

A third of a mile down the road, she runs into a small wooden hut. A park ranger in her mid-fifties decked out in an all-too-familiar uniform waves at her from the window, collecting the $25 motorcycle fee from her with a _How-do-you-do?_ and a smile. In return, Rey receives a small white receipt that she immediately pockets. A pass to the park for the next seven days. Incredible.

When she pulls into the Visitor Center’s large parking lot, though, she feels a small pang of something. Doubt, perhaps, or maybe regret. Because there are cars here. So many cars. 

The parking lot is full of them. Large, shiny rentals. Clusters of motorcycles, groups of gimmicky tour bus. _Priuses_. 

Then she looks up, and... no.

No, she can’t regret this, not even for a second. 

Several hundred-year-old bigleaf maples and Sitka spruces hang over her, moss growing along their ancient trunks, down their spiraled branches, draping, green and verdant. Rey idles into an empty spot and yanks off her helmet, eyes wide, lips parting. 

She’s only in the parking lot, and it’s already the most breathtaking place she’s ever been. 

She’d grown up in the desert. Dry reds, expansive beiges, saturated blues. Explosions of color every shade of the rainbow. Every shade but one. 

That’s her frame of reference. That is what she knows. 

How, exactly, had she been expected to prepare for this much green?

Dark and damp.

Verdant, lush, _alive_. 

Rey feels like she could _cry,_ and she _hates_ crying. _Hates_ it. 

Tears are water, and water is precious, and she has had so few precious things in her life, she resents wasting even an ounce. 

Just as she’s thinking it, overwhelmed and reflecting and altogether stupid with it, fog descends. But it’s not quite fog either. Nor is it mist. Nor is it rain. 

She feels it on her cheeks. Her hands. Her forehead. 

It’s the _air_. 

The humidity.

Something bubbles in her throat, and Rey can’t help it, she just— _laughs_. Giggles, really. 

Giggles at nothing. Giggles to no one. 

She giggles, then grins, wide and wondering. 

She whirls, hands fumbling through her saddlebags even as her eyes dart up and all around her. Body thrumming with excitement, she pulls out the dove grey poncho she’d purchased from the Army Surplus store a year ago and never used. It’s a sturdy thing for all that it’d been on sale. Slick and waterproof. She throws it on immediately, over her threadbare daypack, and flicks up the hood. 

There’s water here. Water everywhere. 

Even with the hood up, she can’t help but get wet—can’t help but lift her face to the sky, her body seeking water like a muscle memory, exposing her face and neck to the cool temperature, the moist air, to _all_ of it, completely defeating the purpose of the poncho. She glides across the parking lot like that, vaguely wandering toward the Visitor Center, staring up at the unfamiliar foliage and grey-cast sky. 

At least, she does until a large black RV honks, loud and long, nearly running her over. 

Rey jumps, jolting at the sound. 

She whips around, hand flying to cover her heart. The traitorous organ thumps wildly against her chest, like if it could jump out of her body, it would. 

The RV is as big as a tour bus. Expensive-looking with sleek black siding and dark, tinted windows. It is less than a _foot_ from her face.

She sucks in a deep breath and laughs to keep from crying. 

Fuck. 

_Fuck._

That would’ve been one way to go.

“Sorry, mate!” she calls, lifting a trembling hand and sending over a sheepish little wave before moving toward the sidewalk.

Before she’s moved more than a few steps, though, the RV driver lays on the horn a second time, honking even louder and longer than before, after it actually could—and did—do something. 

It stops her short, again, but for an entirely different reason. 

Seriously?

Rey huffs, then lowers her shoulders and snaps her mouth shut, determined not to let it get to her. But if she walks as slowly as she has in recent memory the rest of the way to the sidewalk, who’s to say. 

When the RV is finally able to drive past her without risking vehicular manslaughter, it honks again, a third time. And then, as if to obliterate any doubt in her mind that the driver is an asshole of the highest order, it pulls sideways into a row of open spots near the front of the parking lot that clearly read “Compact Cars Only.” Rey almost falters, mouth hanging open, because that’s exactly the kind of belligerent selfishness that drives her up the wall, but she keeps moving toward the Visitor Center, eyes straight ahead. 

She didn’t come to this place for the people, after all. 

And speaking of people, outside of the Visitors Center, it’s a small, jewel-toned sea. A manmade lake of Marmot and Patagonia and North Face rain jackets huddling under the lip of the Center’s overhanging ceiling and out of what is turning into spurts of actual rain. Rey is used to weaving through crowds, though, and slips between clusters of gawking tourists and squabbling families with practice if not ease. 

Inside, there are surprisingly few people, and she queues up in a short line, just as Poe had advised. 

The rangers are helpful when she gets to them. Knowledgeable and efficient. They give her a map. Answer all of her questions. Provide a few unasked-for recommendations, too. 

Since she still needs to get to the campground before time slips too far away, she decides to stick to the Hall of Mosses today. It’s a short, looping trail, according to the ranger. One she’s read about online. 

Less than a mile long. Barely any elevation gain. 

It takes her two hours. 

She hadn’t been able to help it. 

She should have known better.

Rey walks the loop twice, almost without noticing, not from a lack of paying attention but from the sheer jaw-dropping wonder of it all. 

The first few hundred feet, her eyes are locked above her, almost against her will, staring, entranced, at the dangling canopy branches and deep green blankets of moss. It reminds her of _Jurassic Park_ , this ancient, verdant forest, and she’s never even _seen_ _Jurassic Park._

The sky is grey, overcast. The soil is rich, loamy. There must be over a dozen types of ferns, all as big as bushes. Trees taller than houses. And the _moss_ —

The moss looks dark and green and more _alive_ than anything she’s ever seen. 

A small plaque near an offshoot of the trail tells her it’s epiphytic spikemoss. That it’s not harmful to the trees in the slightest. Is only found in the Pacific Northwest. 

Rey soaks it all up like a sponge.

Her second loop, after the rain stopped as unremarkably as it started, she notices the wildlife, too. The animals and people. 

A middle-aged couple sits crouched near a large, beautiful tree. Its trunk is split in two, as if by lightning decades ago, but instead of looking up at it, their eyes are fixed firmly downward, to the dirt-packed trail. Curious, Rey stops next to them and crouches as well. 

A squiggly lump of yellow is splayed out on the dirt. It’s as long as her pointer finger and twice as thick. 

It squirms forward, elongating. 

Rey jumps, and the squiggly lump freezes, its antennae retracting. 

“A banana slug,” says one of the women next to her, pointing. She’s wearing vibrant red lipstick and an expensive black rain jacket. She looks like she’s never had a bad hair day in her life. “They’re everywhere here.”

The banana slug in question extends its two tiny antennae out cautiously, then starts to slide forward again.

“Woah,” Rey says in response. “Gross.”

The woman laughs, then leaves hand-in-hand with her partner. Rey stays behind, watching the slug for another five solid minutes, until it makes its way off the path. After that, she does, indeed, notice them everywhere.

She notices other things, too. 

Things that are common, almost, as if iterations. Clones. Families, couples, teenagers. Copies of the same old white man. They’re dispersed along the trail with tripods slung over their shoulders, dSLR cameras with huge, expensive-looking lenses dangling around their necks. They’re almost all dressed in khaki fishing shirts. They’re almost all crowding around innocuous-looking ferns or patches of moss. 

Rey, while not a photographer in the least, has always been a bit of a techy. A tinkerer.

So maybe she hovers. Maybe she stares a little too long. 

“It’s a macro lens,” one of the old men says, noticing Rey’s interest. He has balding white hair, thick bushy eyebrows, and a hint of a southern accent. He looks like someone’s grandfather. “The glass helps me get detailed shots of the fronds. See? Look here.” He presses a button and taps on the back of his camera. 

Rey shuffles over and looks where he’s pointing. A frond curls sharply across the whole of the LCD screen, everything behind it an impossibly blurred dark green. 

“That’s beautiful,” Rey murmurs to him, and means it. She glances up. “Could you, uh—could you take my picture, maybe?”

His smile is wry. “It’s not the best lens for portraits, I’m afraid.”

“Oh,” Rey laughs, awkward. “No. I, um—” She rummages under her poncho, fumbling awkwardly behind her until she reaches one of the smaller pockets of her daypack. “With this.” 

She extends her dinged-up point-and-shoot camera out to him. It is pitifully small next to his dSLR monstrosity, but it’s sturdy and waterproof and she’s confident it’ll work for what she needs. She fixed it herself, after all. 

The older man raises his bushy eyebrows. “Ah, yes,” he says, and smiles a different smile altogether. “That’s much better.” 

“Thank you.” Rey gives him the camera and steps back onto the path. “It’s on automatic.” 

Behind her, the path is mostly empty except for three young teenage girls who look like they might be sisters. They’re dressed in pink and purple and cerulean Marmot rain jackets, pristine hiking boots, and tight, fancy black leggings with mesh cutouts. The shortest of them is holding out a caseless rose gold iPhone and pivoting slowly, taking a panorama. The two taller girls are in the middle of the path, posing with their bodies tilted toward each other and their arms thrown up in the air. 

Rey turns around and exhales. 

She nods at the older man once, clearing her throat. 

“One. Two.” Rey throws on her widest, cheesiest grin. _“_ _Three_ _.”_

The picture is a good one. 

“Excellent,” Rey says when she checks it. “Thank you. Can you take one more, if it’s not too much trouble?”

“Sure thing, sweetheart. No trouble at all.”

Rey’s eye twitches at the _sweetheart_ bit, but she prepares herself to throw on the same wide, cheesy grin. This time, though, she holds up her right arm, as if she’s slinging it around someone’s shoulder. The poncho lifts in a dramatic diagonal, and her thin fingers peek out from the heavy fabric, curving, as if they’re gripping something. Someone. 

“Ready?” he asks. 

Rey nods. 

“Okay. One. Two. _Th_ _—”_

“ **Move.** ” 

_"—ree!”_

The camera clicks audibly, but Rey is whirling, and the teenagers are squealing, and an absurdly tall man dressed head-to-toe in black is barreling down the trail like he’s on a warpath, a fearsome scowl twisting his long, pale face. 

The girls spring up and apart like a startled flock of pigeons, flapping their arms and jumping to either side of the path. The pale giant of a man maintains his rapid, aggressive pace throughout, unflinching as they squeal and squawk. His unzipped black Gore-Tex rain jacket actually billows behind him with how fast he’s moving, and Rey is just— _baffled_. 

She must make an unconscious noise of surprise, because his eyes flick over to hers. 

As their eyes connect, the flash she feels is startling, prolonged. A second. Another. _And then—_

And then he resumes his hurried pace and passes by without a backward glance. 

Rey, the girls, and the older man all exhale, as if in unison, when he turns a corner, disappearing out of sight. They exchange bewildered glances, the kind strangers can only share when seeking confirmation of a bizarre experience. 

“What a fucking _dick_ ,” the cerulean-clad girl spits, walking back to the center of the path, picking up her phone from the ground. 

The girl in the pink jacket gasps. “Jude, you can’t just say that!” 

“Whatever,” Jude scoffs, crossing her arms. “He was.”

Rey stares off in his general direction, at the figurative wake he’d left behind him, and can’t help but agree. 

  


**҉ ҉ ҉**

  


When she turns back to the older man, he smiles slightly. “You’re probably gonna want another picture, huh, sweetheart?”

Rey nods, smile strained to the point of breaking, and resumes her ridiculous pose. 

The picture is fine. 

Not as good as the first. 

  


**҉ ҉ ҉**

  


Rey circles the campground quickly, probably far too quickly judging by the number of young children she’s seen so far, then circles again. 

An idiot. 

She’s an idiot. 

A big, massive, dumber-than-dumb _idiot_. 

The first-come, first-serve spots are all full. The car camping spots. The walk-ins. Each and every one.

Rey drives back to the campground’s main parking lot, the divider between the reserved campground and the other one, and tugs off her helmet. The park ranger had left at 4pm. It’s now nearing 6pm, which is, of course, far too late for Rey to be looking for a spot. 

But maybe there’s one she’s missed? 

It’s Sunday. That’s not a day many people camp, right? That’s what she’d been hoping for, at least. 

She stares at the map without seeing it. She must have some kind of pitiful expression on her face, because a blonde woman walking a golden retriever glances her way and stops, even though her dog strains against its leash. 

“There’s still an empty spot in the reserved lot, I think, if you’re still looking,” she says.

Rey just kind of blinks at her. 

“I saw it while I was walking this nightmare. The lot has a green marker saying it’s reserved for tomorrow, but it doesn’t have anything on it for today. At least, it didn’t a minute ago.”

“Oh,” Rey says, and blinks again. “Thank you.”

The woman nods. The nightmare dog lolls out its tongue. 

“No problem.” She shrugs. “Hope you get it.” 

A bush rustles, and the dog lunges, its leash snapping taut. The woman jerks forward in a stutter-step. “There are a few people circling, just so you know.” She fights for control of the leash and exhales heavily. “Good luck.”

Rey thanks her again, then snatches an orange campsite registration form and bolts for the reserved loop, keeping her eyes peeled. 

And she’s glad she does because she nearly misses the spot. It’s small, tucked away next to the RV campsites. At first glance, it appears to be a spillover parking spot instead of an actual site, which is probably why it hasn’t been taken yet. 

Rey doesn’t mind the size. Doesn’t need much space. 

She hops off her bike to investigate. While the spot is indeed small, with a standard metal fire ring, wooden picnic table, and not much else, it extends slightly, through a wild, overgrown copse of trees. Delighted, Rey ducks through the small opening in the trees, feeling a bit like Mary from _The Secret Garden_ as she discovers a tiny raised surface with just the right footprint for her tent.

She inhales. Grins.

Perfect. 

It’s _perfect._

She hustles back to her bike, grabbing her tent and unpacking it quickly, wanting to pitch it before leaving to pay the night’s fee. 

There’s the tarp, the tent, the poles, the stakes. It’s been a few years, yes, but she could do this in her sleep. 

Her tent is small. Old but sturdy. A simple A-line thing in a dark army green that she’s had for as long as she can remember. Longer, even. It’s barely large enough to fit in now. 

The external rain fly, another gift from Poe, trips her up for a moment, as she’s never used one before—has never had to—but she figures it out soon enough. She has a spatially-oriented brain, Finn’s always said. 

Next, because it’ll take a few minutes to get going and her stomach is already rumbling, empty and impatient, she throws together her camping stove and starts boiling water for her dinner. Once it’s lit and she feels confident it’s set up securely, she backtracks, rustling around in her daypack for a pen to fill out the registration form. 

There are two small squares of paper and an envelope, all the same orange-y color. The money—$22 whole dollars, which is a bit exorbitant for only one night of camping—goes in the envelope. One of the two squares goes on her campsite lot sign, and the other goes on the main lot board to let people know she’s taken this spot for the night. It’s straightforward. Simple enough. 

Or would be, if her pen wasn’t struggling to write. 

She tries all of the usual tricks. She scribbles wildly, licks the pen’s tip, even takes the entire thing apart and blows on the plastic casing—casing that still houses at least an inch of blue ink, ink she can _see_ —but nothing works.

Great. 

Just flipping great. 

And, of course, she doesn’t have another pen. She’d downsized. Kept only the sparking-joy minimum. Who had room for more than one pen on a road trip, right? 

Right.

A white camper van with a surfboard hitched to its roof takes that moment to circle the loop slowly, clearly searching for a spot. Rey locks eyes with the driver, a scruffy-looking white guy with an overgrown beard and colorful tie-dyed headband. His eyes move from hers to the empty lot sign and back again.

He’s not exactly subtle. 

Spurred forward, she strides out of her site’s alcove and looks about. As she does, a family of four exits the site to her right, all of them on bicycles. 

The smallest bike has training wheels. Pink and white streamers dangle from its handlebars, blowing, twisting, twinning in the wind.

Rey turns abruptly to the left.

The RV spots are, in a word, ridiculous. She can’t begin to fathom why anyone would want to take an RV camping—if it could even be _called_ camping—but she walks over to the site directly next to hers, briefly glimpsing a tiny metal sign with the number 28. Instead of an orange sheet like the one she has, there’s a white one from the park rangers with a roughly jotted name and date. 

_Ben,_ she thinks she reads, barely deciphering the park ranger’s chicken-scratch handwriting. 

When she rounds the corner, she comes face-to-face with a sleek black vehicle that looks like it’d be more fitting on tour for a pampered rock band than as an RV camper van. It is—unique. Stands out from the rest. 

The RV from before. Of course it is. 

_And what of it?_

Rey marches forward, determined. When she reaches the side door, she stops and takes a deep, fortifying breath. It’s a favor, and she hates favors. Despises them, in fact. But, ultimately, it’s just a small one, and one she has to ask. She does things she doesn’t want to do all the time. She’s an adult, damnit, and has been one for most of her life. 

She raises her hand to knock, rapid-fire and in quick succession.

_One. Two. Three._

“Yes?” 

The voice is deep, masculine, and oddly flat. It comes from directly behind her.

Rey whips around, eyes wide.

There, behind a cluster of trees, a tall, dark-haired man is lounging in a red Eno hammock. And because the universe is small and cruel and conspiring against her for some reason, he’s also the same man from earlier, on the trail. 

“Oh,” Rey says, rather stupidly. “Hello.”

The man— _Ben,_ she presumes—just sort of looks at her. 

He takes up the entirety of the double-nested hammock with his large, lounging form. On the surface, he looks calm, maybe even relaxed, but Rey hasn’t been able to live her life by trusting what’s on the surface. Underneath, he’s rigid. Stiff. Like he’s merely playing the part of a person who lounges, relaxes, and isn’t particularly enjoying the role. 

His face is as she remembers it. The scowling mouth, the prominent nose, the intense brown eyes. 

It’s the eyes that hold her attention. They’re sharp, intelligent, and—now—a little distant; they take her in, moving from her guarded face to her oversized army surplus poncho to her ratty leather boots and back, a hundred familiar assumptions and extrapolations flickering across them in an instant. 

Unexpectedly, Rey finds herself feeling disappointed. 

But mostly she’s just mad.

He’s subtler than many, but Rey is also more observant than most. She’s had to be. 

“Did you need something?” he asks bluntly. It’s not rude, exactly, but it’s not nice either. 

Rey narrows her eyes. Opens her mouth to tell him, no, it was simply a mistake, she thought his site was someone else’s, she doesn’t need anything from him or _anyone_ else, not anymore or ever again, but then— 

Then the white SUV circles, even slower this time. The bearded surfer practically hangs out of its open window, glaring at her. 

So that’s probably why when she opens her mouth, she’s also clenching her fists, and what actually comes out is, “Yes, actually. A pen, if you have one. Mine’s dead, unfortunately, and I need to write in my lot registration.” 

She doesn’t fidget. Even manages a smile.

Ben only looks at her.

Seconds pass, and just as Rey starts to think something might genuinely be wrong with him, his lips tighten, and his hulking form moves to sit up. 

Rey has never once seen a person gracefully extract themselves from an Eno hammock, and Ben is no exception. He twists and kind of flops out, flailing slightly. It brings her no small amount of karmic satisfaction. 

As he rights himself on impossibly long legs, the hammock rocks sharply, swaying. It bumps against the back of his thighs, and a large paperback novel falls, unnoticed, at his feet. It hits the ground pages first and splays out, spine bending on impact.

“I have one inside,” Ben says in a gruff voice, inclining his head toward the RV. Thick, wavy black hair falls over half of his face as he does, and he swipes it back with an absent flick of his hand.

Rey gives him another forced smile. “Thank you.” 

Ben makes a vague gesture in response. 

It could be _you’re welcome._ It could be _shut up._

She can’t get a complete read on him, but she can tell that his social skills are off the charts.

Now that he’s standing, Rey sees he’s wearing the same black Gore-Tex jacket from earlier today, though now it’s zipped up, reminding her of a military field jacket, oddly enough. It’s fitting, the stylistic choice, because even though it’s just a short walk to the RV—and to _her_ —he marches most of it like a soldier on a battlefield, moving purposefully with long, rigid strides until he’s close to her. 

Right next to her, actually, and holy hell, he’s huge. Freakishly broad. Intimidating. And also really, very close. 

His large hand rummages inside his jacket pocket, likely for his keys, and his elbow brushes her poncho in the process. It occurs to her to back up, give him some space, but before she can, Ben tugs on the RV’s door handle, and then he’s up, disappearing inside. 

There’s a flash of bright fluorescents. A gleaming marble countertop. 

A shiny black door slammed right in her face. 

Half an _inch_ from her nose.

Which.

Okay. 

Maybe it wasn’t done on purpose. Maybe he didn’t mean it like that. 

She _is_ a stranger. And he is—ostensibly—doing her a favor. The RV is his temporary home, and she wouldn’t exactly let him, a perfect stranger, into hers. 

Still, as she’s staring at the shiny black door, the teenage girl’s statement from earlier today comes back to her, ringing in her ears. 

_What a fucking_ **_dick_**. 

Rey exhales sharply through her nose. Unclenches her fists. Steps away from the door, if only to keep it from actually slamming into her face whenever this Ben guy exits. If only to keep from kicking a sizable dent in it with her _ratty_ leather boots.

Instead, she turns and very calmly walks across his campsite, over to the red hammock and the paperback underneath it, its pages still splayed out. 

It’s an old-looking thing, the book. Well-loved, with thick yellowing pages, a cracked spine, and faded gray cover. 

_Tolkien,_ she reads. _The_ _Unfinished Tales of Númenor and Middle-earth._

Rey picks it up, but _only_ because the pages are starting to get wet around the edges, and Finn would kill her if she didn’t. 

She’s read Tolkien, too. All of the major titles, anyway. Cheap mass-market editions purchased at thrift stores and pilfered from Finn’s small collection, but never this book. She glances at the back cover and finds it frustratingly absent of useful information, so she flips it open. 

Lines of elegant black cursive grace the title page. Her pointer finger traces each curl and loop as she reads.

_Dearest Ben,_

_Our adventures are so much larger than they first appear._

_Never stop looking. Never stop learning. Entire worlds will open for you._

_All our love,_ _  
_ _Mom_ ~~_and Dad_ ~~

  
  
Rey snaps the book shut and drops it back on the hammock. 

That confirms the name, at least. 

She turns stiffly, glancing around his campsite. It’s larger than hers, but not by much. Other than the Eno hammock and white ceramic coffee mug on the picnic table, the site looks empty. Unused. Like hers. 

She waits. 

And waits. 

Just as she’s about to leave, half-convinced she’s been stonewalled—or, worse, forgotten about—the RV door swings opens, and Ben emerges with a slender cylindrical object clutched in his large hand. The pen, presumably. 

He crosses over to her without a word, and when he places the pen in her hand, her palm drops slightly. It’s heavier than she expects. 

Much heavier than any pen she’s ever held, and it’s funny looking, too, with a long silver body and pointed gold nub at the end, like a calligraphy pen. 

Not _like_ a calligraphy pen, Rey realizes with an odd sense of detachment as she rolls it in her palm. It _is_ a calligraphy pen. 

What the fuck?

She looks up at Ben, brow furrowing, trying to figure out if this is a joke. 

Again, he’s standing a little too close to her. His intense brown eyes are staring back at her, examining her face, as if looking for a reaction. Like he’s daring her to say something. 

Not a joke, then.

She’s only a little weirded out.

“This is—great.” Her fingers curl around its slick metal body, and she straightens her shoulders, fighting a grimace. “My site is, uh, right over there. I’ll be one second. Promise.”

Soaked, partially decomposed leaves squelch under her boots as she strides forward. Cutting through the thick copse of trees connecting their sites feels like a better option than circling back to the main road. She climbs over a tree stump, ducks under a branch. A twig snaps—one she didn’t step on—and she glances over her shoulder. 

It’s Ben. Who else would it be? 

Somehow, he’s managed to fit through the same tree-lined path her scrawny frame only _just_ managed to squeeze through. He’s coming with her, apparently. 

That’s fine. Not weird at all.

Rey shakes her head.

To be fair, his fancy metal Hogwarts pen probably cost a lot more than her ten-cent Bic one. And it’s not like she would just trust a stranger with one of _her_ nice possessions.

She purses her lips. 

It’s whatever. She’ll sign this thing quickly and be done.

She moves to put the registration down on the picnic table, but with the heavy moisture and frequent rain, the wooden table is soaked through and waterlogged, damp to the touch. It’s not an issue for the piece of paper she’ll need to attach to her lot sign, as that’ll just get wet anyway, but the envelope and other square paper have to go in the campground’s lockbox and covered map, respectively. 

She hesitates. Can hear Ben emerge from the trees. Can _feel_ him loom behind her, tall and broad, like the prominent hemlocks they’d just stepped through. 

It’s—distracting. Messes with her head. 

But then it hits her. Her poncho.

The thick gray fabric swishes over her ears, and she flips it inside out before smoothing it over the table. Once there, she puts the orange squares on top of it and begins the surprisingly difficult process of eeking out her name and contact information with his fancy ass metal pen.

  


  


Rey Cooper  
6/15  
$22  
Lot 27  


  


The ink spurts out at first, leaking on her fingers and all over the paper, narrowly avoiding her poncho. It makes large dripping blots, and the sharp metal nubbin tears a hole in the page, and it’s so frustratingly ridiculous, like she’s learning to write her name for the first time—except she’s twenty-three-goddamn-years-old, not a child. 

It’s not an easy thing to do with an audience, especially one with a presence as substantial as Ben’s, but she does it. _Signs her name._

Straightening, she turns and holds the pen out between her thumb and forefinger for Ben, careful to use the hand that isn’t stained black from ink. Careful to keep the growing frustration off of her face. 

He did her a favor. 

He didn’t have to, but he did. 

She can be mature. Can be polite. 

“Thank you for your help, Ben. I appreciate it.” 

There. Good. Respectable, even. 

But Ben—he stiffens. Freezes, a full-body flench, then snatches the pen out of her hand almost faster than she can track. A scowl crosses his face, quick as a curse, and grows roots.

He doesn’t say you’re welcome. He doesn’t turn to leave.

“Do I know you?” he sneers coldly, and Rey gapes up at him, reeling. 

She thinks briefly on the Hoh parking lot and how he’d nearly run her over, on the Hall of Mosses and how he’d stormed down the trail, and on how apparently none of that was enough to make a lasting impression. She snaps her mouth shut. 

“No,” she replies, equally cold. “You don’t.”

Ben frowns, scowl deepening. His dark brow furrows, and his intense brown eyes scan hers, like he’s looking for something. Searching for some sign or trace or - 

_“Oh_ _,”_ Rey breathes. “You meant your _name!”_

Ben’s face is guarded. He gives a small nod. 

“I got it from the reservation sign,” Rey elaborates, pointing in its general direction. She pauses, grimacing. “Sorry if that was weird.”

Something flashes behind Ben’s eyes. “It was.”

Well, okay. 

Rey doesn’t know why she’s surprised. This man looks like he’s never lied to spare someone’s feelings in his entire life. Not directly. Not by omission. 

“Yeah,” Rey murmurs, cheeks burning. “Apparently.” 

A moment passes. Then another. 

Ben is still silent, looking down at her and through her, as if she isn’t even there. 

Awkward.

It’s so awkward.

Rey stands there looking up at him for a solid minute, and a minute is a _long_ time. He doesn’t pay attention to any of her nonverbal cues, though. Is still looking at her and beyond her, and Rey absolutely _refuses_ to thank him again as a way to get him to leave—to push him out the metaphorical door. That’s such a bullshit thing to do, and she’s never done it for anyone; he is not about to be the first.

Instead, she holds up the campsite forms in her hand and waves them about. “Well, listen, friend—I better go hang these up before the guy in that white SUV finally pulls over and kicks me out for squatting, like he’s clearly aiming to.”

She says it lightly, attempting levity and likely failing, because Ben’s face just takes on this hard, serious expression, like that’s a real possibility. Like he might just help the guy do it. 

Right. _Okay._

Time to go. 

She turns and walks to the corner of her site, crouching to clip one orange square to her lot number, the metal sign cool to the touch. 

This last half-hour, the clouds have been gathering. The moisture in the air picking up, teasing toward rain. Now, apparently, the build-up is over. The sky breaks, rain falling. Rey stands, sneaking a glance up at the dark gray clouds as she does, and a particularly fat raindrop splats across the bridge of her nose. 

Several more hit, dropping from above like miniature water balloons, and Rey tries to smother her smile, she really does. But she can’t quite manage it. The water soaks through her skin and rushes to that dry, hungry place buried deep within her. Despite the awkward atmosphere and stilted conversation and everything else, a smile spreads across her face like a desert bloom.

This world is so much bigger than a rude stranger, the rain reminds her. So much larger than a weird interaction.

She heads over to her bike, feeling stronger. Lighter.

She swings a leg over it, grips the handlebars firmly, takes a deep breath, and—there’s Ben. 

Still there. 

Standing. Staring.

Her smile wavers. 

And then she shrugs, leather boot pushing back her bike’s kickstand. _Oh-goddamn-fucking-well._

“Wait!” 

Rey pauses, lips pursed. 

This might just be the strangest, most drawn-out interaction she’s ever had with another human being. If this pale giant of a man is, in fact, human. 

“Your jacket,” Ben says, gesturing behind him to her poncho. “It’s raining.”

“I know,” Rey says meaningfully, because big wet raindrops are actively falling on her. And then, because she’s a desert rat from Jakku and can’t help herself, she lifts her face up to the sky, closes her eyes, and smiles. “Lovely, isn’t it?”

Ben does not agree with her. 

His dark brows are drawn, his pale cheeks flushed pink from the rain. He’s frowning at her.

And Rey’s smile sort of... fades away. 

She clears her throat. “So, yeah. I’m going to go now. Let me know if you, uh, wind up needing a cup of sugar or something, okay? I’ll do the same.”

 _Leave,_ she thinks at him. _Please leave._

“I don’t eat sugar.”

And Rey—

Rey has _no idea_ what to say to that, so she doesn’t say anything at all. She just nods, sending him one last grimace of a smile, and leaves.

  


**҉ ҉ ҉**

  


When she returns less than five minutes later, she half-expects to find Ben still there, standing and staring, planted in the same spot like the large, looming evergreens, but instead, she finds two things:

The first, and most apparent: he’s definitely no longer there.

The second: the water in her camp stove has all but boiled off entirely.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the iOS formatting came from [CodenameCarrot and La_Temperanza's tutorial](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6434845/chapters/14729722). some font styling came from [La_Temperanza's stationary tutorial](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11549178/chapters/25935135). y'all should check'em out if you're interested! 
> 
> next chapter is written and will be up in a week-ish.
> 
> comments are love.


	2. domino effect

She stays at the Hoh campground for two nights. 

Two whole, glorious nights. 

She has to move away from the reserved spots that first morning, since someone by the name McQuarrie is registered as coming later that day, but the mandated move is kind of a blessing, honestly, after that painful interaction with her short-lived grinch of a neighbor. Or vampire of a neighbor, maybe. It is the Pacific Northwest, after all, and Forks is supposedly only an hour down the road.

Absurd references aside, Rey finds it’s much easier to find a site when you wake up _in_ the campground instead of in another state. As groups pack up to leave by the 11am checkout, Rey is already back from her morning hike and sniffing around, ready, waiting. 

She finds one _hell_ of a spot. 

Even better than her Secret Garden one.

After she moves her tent and borrows a pen from a group of college students in an entirely uneventful exchange, she walks a circuitous route through the campground. 

As she’d been scoping out the sites earlier, she’d noticed a lot of the fire pits weren’t quite empty after their previous occupants left. Some of them had even been full.

It’s a temptation she doesn’t begin to resist. 

Signs saying not to collect native wood are spread through the park, likely to keep people from hacking away at the live, hundred-year-old trees. She never would, of course, but she understands the need. Tourists are lazy and mostly terrible, after all. Like them, she isn’t about to drive thirty minutes roundtrip to pay for camp wood. This close to the park, locals have been selling it for $10 a bundle, and while Rey doesn’t blame them for capitalizing on others’ poor planning, she also finds it an absurd price. So she’d gone without a fire last night.

Not tonight, though. 

Sure, most of what she finds is unusable. Practically charcoal.

But there are a _lot_ of empty sites. Plenty where the leftover wood is only partially burnt. Others, still, where it’s all but untouched. 

Rey takes as much as she can carry without a second thought. 

**҉ ҉ ҉**

Her hike that afternoon is beautiful. 

Long. Leisurely.

She lets herself wander. Takes time to explore. 

She learns that ferns have spores on the back of their fronds, little round bumps that feel like Braille under her calloused fingertips. Discovers that banana slugs have tiny brown spots and shy back from her touch. 

She passes hikers, and hikers pass her. She waves, they nod, and it’s always a cheerful exchange. Always pleasant, always amicable.

At the top of the summit, she spies a familiar black-clad figure, and, after a moment of hesitation, she waves at him, too. 

Ben’s eyes seem to track the movement, traveling the path of her hand. Then he turns from her and pulls up his hood, like she’s not even there. 

And that’s—fine.

It certainly doesn’t keep her from climbing the rest of the summit. From sitting on an overturned log, from breathing in the fresh air, chest swelling as she enjoys the view. At some point, Ben leaves, and Rey doesn’t even notice. She doesn’t. She’s in a temperate rainforest, after all. It’s the antithesis to all she’s known—a contrast so extreme it borders on painful. That eclipses things like petty indignation. Things like pride. 

She takes a hundred pictures up on that ridge. All of them different. All of them the same. 

Green. 

Green. 

_Green._

It rains halfway through her descent, a downpour, and she doesn’t mind at all. 

**҉ ҉ ҉**

An hour later, on her way back to the campground, Rey pulls off at a gas station. It’s a small, family-owned store with only one pump and without a credit card reader.

She buys four gallons of exorbitantly priced gas and a package of blue ballpoint pens. By the register, there’s a large wicker basket full of yellow-green Jonagold apples. A handwritten sign says they’re from a farm down the road, and on a whim, she buys one of those, too. 

The apple is crisp. Delicious and sweet. 

She sits on the curb next to her bike, knees pulled up to her chin, and eats the entire thing—core and all. 

**҉ ҉ ҉**

At the campsite that night, Rey makes a fire.

Birds sing to her as the sun slowly sets. Their song is a long one, one she envisions as an epic, operatic tale. A song for the wind, a song for the trees, a song for each other. 

It’s not a bad musical backdrop for her humble camp stove-made dinner, all told.

The beans and rice are warm and filling. She eats them straight from the pot, licking it and her small wooden spatula clean when she’s done.

She chugs her water bottle, then fills it up at the pottable water station not thirty feet from her camp. Washes her empty cooking pot there, too.

After, she walks the bend to the public restroom. Three young children take up the stalls, and a harried mother runs between them, talking to one, coaxing another, chiding the last. She’s wearing cheap plastic thong sandals that flip, flop, and slap loudly on the dirty tile floor. Rey brushes her teeth outside and waits for them to leave.

It’s the blue of twilight when she finishes with the restroom, nearly ten o’clock at night. Even though she can easily make it back to her site without it, she turns on her headlamp just for fun.

At her site, she grabs a long, pointy stick and uses it to break apart the burning logs in her fire pit, hoping for a morning fire. The wood up here is pine, and it burns fast, providing more smoke than heat, but Rey doesn’t mind. Is good at rationing.

After, she crawls into her tiny tent, headlamp on, water bottle in hand. She slips into her sleeping bag, the cool, soft fabric a whisper against her skin.

She hangs up her headlamp on a carabiner at the apex of her tent. Zips the bag up to her chin. It’s familiar enough but different, too. 

_Good different,_ she thinks as she turns off the light. A lone bird sings one last, final note. 

And then nothing. And then quiet.

Just her breath, the dark, and the trees. All swaying into night.

Rey shuts her eyes and breathes in deep.

It’s so beautiful here she can hardly stand it.

**҉ ҉ ҉**

The stack in her arms is formidable. Possibly even greedy.

Despite the fact that she’s leaving today, heading off to Kalaloch, Rey can’t resist one final lap around the campground to collect leftover wood. She’s fairly certain she has room for it. That it will fit on the back of her bike if she ties it up right and packs everything correctly.

She tells herself she’ll look through one last site before leaving. 

After that, though, it’s one more. 

Then another.

Then a thud.

Loud. Sickening. It sounds like someone being hit by a car.

“Fuck!”

Rey turns toward the scream and hears another thud, louder than before.

_“Fuck!”_

She sprints. 

Wood still clutched tightly in her arms, legs pumping madly, she rounds the bend. 

Rounds the bend, and sees a familiar black RV. 

The front plate is up. Smoke spills forth from the engine in an angry gray plume.

Ben is there, shoulders heaving, forehead pressed against the side of the monstrous vehicle, an unmistakable fist-sized dent at his right. 

His knuckles are scuffed. Bloody. 

Rey pauses, breathing heavily. 

She could back away right now. _Should_ back away right now. She doesn’t even have to turn around; she could just step back and back and back once more, until she’s gone, faded, _away._

Her foot lifts, boot easing behind her over the cracked asphalt road, but a precariously stacked piece of wood shifts in her arms, and in her rush to straighten it, she drops two other, larger pieces. 

Thunk.

_Thunk._

Ben’s shoulders stiffen. He whips around, nostrils flared. 

His face is a riot of emotion, and Rey is momentarily struck, overwhelmed by the intensity of it. 

Furious. He looks so wholly and immediately _furious._

He’s on the verge of something dangerous, expression volatile and eyes flashing, but then Rey takes another step back, and Ben seems to grasp something—either her presence or his fucking sanity—because his face sort of shutters. He glares at the half-burnt wood at her feet. At the half-burnt wood in her hands. At her shocked, widening eyes.

_"Scavenging?"_ he asks, the word almost spat.

And _that_ snaps her out of it quickly enough.

_"Engine trouble?”_ she bites back immediately, and in a tone worse than his, because fuck this guy. No one talks to her like that.

Ben puffs up, hackles rising, and Rey doesn’t even flinch. She hardens. 

Readies herself for the impending altercation, spine stiffening, face taking on a familiar stoney quality. If he thinks she’ll back down just because he’s older, larger, meaner—he’s wrong. He is so fucking wrong. 

Ben doesn’t seem to think anything of the sort, though. He takes in her posture and simply... deflates.

“Yeah,” he mutters, voice stilted. “Engine trouble.” His mouth grows pinched. “I’m... sorry. For being rude. You—you startled me.” 

While the words sound like they were ripped from his very person, they also feel unmistakably genuine. 

_What?_

Ben’s tall form hunches over as if he’s trying to make himself smaller, a sullen expression crossing his face. He makes a vague, helpless gesture toward the RV’s engine with his bloodied hand. Rey isn’t sure he even knows it’s bleeding. 

“I tried, but I don’t know what’s wrong with it.” He shakes his head and sighs. “I was never good enough with cars.”

Oh man. 

There’s a story there, that’s for sure. Everyone’s entitled to their own shit, as far as Rey’s concerned, but she usually stays out of it, as it’s the best way for others to stay out of hers.

Which is why she has _no idea_ what possesses her to walk over to the RV’s open hood, peer inside, and say, “Well, I’m not too bad with them.”

Ben looks like it was the last thing he expected from her. Like he doesn’t believe it, and certainly doesn’t trust it. 

“What?”

“Yeah.” Rey places her half-burnt camp wood on the ground in a careful stack and peers back inside. “I used to moonlight as a mechanic in another life.”

_A life that ended two weeks ago,_ she doesn’t say.

“I could take a look. See what I can do.”

Ben swallows. 

He blows out a frustrated breath and shakes his head again. “You really don’t have to—I can just call a tow-truck. This trip was a mistake from the start.”

_Then maybe you’re doing something wrong,_ Rey thinks, and doesn’t say that either. 

Instead, she puts her hands on her hips and turns back to the smoking engine. The problem is apparent from even a cursory glance, though she knows better than to say that out loud.

“Do you have a socket wrench?”

“I... think so?” He doesn’t sound confident. 

“I have a couple in my saddlebags, but I’m not sure I’ve kept the right sizes with me. Socket wrenches are long, silver ratchets with cylindrical little - ”

“I know what socket wrenches are,” Ben says. He doesn’t sound rude, though, which is the only reason Rey lets him keep talking. “It’s just this... _RV_ isn’t mine, and I’m not sure where the tools are. But I can—go check?”

The broken engine thing must have really done a number on him, because he seems like another person entirely. A standoffish one, yes, but a bumbling one now, too. 

A standoffish, bumbling person still waiting for her response. 

“Sure. Sounds good.” 

“Okay.” Ben walks around to the side door. Pauses. Appears to think better of it. “Look, you really don’t have to - ”

“I’m returning a favor. And I don’t think it’ll take long.”

It doesn’t.

Fifteen minutes later, and the smoke is gone.

Rey wipes her forehead with the back of her hand, then takes a sip of water. _Ice_ water at that. In the most shocking turn of events of the entire day, Ben had offered her a glass after he came out of the RV with a small black toolbox filled with top-of-the-line, utterly unused tools.

Apparently he _did_ have manners, after all. He just chooses not to use them, which somehow feels much worse.

“Finished,” Rey calls, and puts her empty glass on the ground near her stack of camp wood. “This should hold for the next five hundred miles or so, but I’d tell whoever owns it—rental company or whoever—to take it to a certified mechanic when they can.”

She lifts up on her toes, biceps flexing as she shoves the hood closed. It _snicks_ into place, and she turns around, eyes up, lips pursed to blow away a stubborn strand of hair, and—narrowly avoids the large pale hand reaching toward her face.

“Jesus _Christ!_ ” Rey snaps, ducking under Ben’s arm and moving away from the RV as fast as she’s able, which is fast. “What the hell, man!”

She’d seen him standing close. Had known he liked to _loom._ But he hadn’t made a move to touch her. 

Then again, no one really does until they do. 

“Sorry!” Ben says immediately. His eyes are wide and brown and shocked. They take in Rey’s defensive stance, and he steps back against the flat of the RV. He makes a weak, apologetic face and holds his hands up. “Sorry. God, that was - sorry. I don’t know why I did that. I shouldn’t have. It’s just you have -” he gestures to his forehead, making an abbreviated wiping motion.

The tension racketing through Rey’s body eases somewhat. “Engine grease?” she supplies, voice clipped.

Ben shakes his head. “Charcoal,” he says, and makes an odd face.

Rey scoffs. “Well, that one’s new.” She swipes at her forehead a couple of times with her sleeve until there’s a large dark smudge on the fabric, until her heartbeat settles back to a reasonable pace. “Better?”

“Worse.”

She grimaces. “ _Awesome._ Well, as I said, the engine should serve you through the rest of your trip. Good luck with it.”

_And the rest of your life, you fucking weirdo._

She turns, not about to repeat the previous day’s long, awkward, drawn-out exchange. She’ll find some hand soap in the bathroom, wash her forehead, then head off to another campground. 

To Kalaloch. _The ocean._

She honestly cannot get there soon enough.

“Wait!” 

Is she laughing? She feels like she’s laughing. 

_"What?"_ she snarls, whirling around.

Ben opens his mouth, then closes it. Then does the whole thing again. She does not have time for this, and is about to tell him exactly that. As well as some rather pointed things he can do with his recently bandaged hand.

“I—I don’t know your name.”

Oh.

Well. 

_Good_. 

“Rey. My name is Rey.”

Ben places his hands in his pockets, as if hiding them from her. He nods. “Thank you for your help, Rey.” 

“Sure,” she says. “Don’t mention it.”

Before he _can_ mention it or anything else, she turns around again and walks off. For real this time. 

She’s halfway back to her site when she realizes she left her collected wood next to the RV, but there’s no way she’s going back now. 

So long, Ben. 

**҉ ҉ ҉**

Rey tends not to make the same mistake twice. 

She drives straight to the Kalaloch campground, arriving exactly at noon. 

The campground is a good one, right next to the beach. She smells the ocean before she hears it. Hears it before she sees it. Drives by it, so tempted to turn her head and look over the edge of the cliff face, but she knows that once she looks, she’ll be lost. So she doesn’t. The campsite comes first. 

The RVs have the best spots in the entire campground for some reason unbeknownst to Rey, on the cliff face overlooking the beach. It doesn’t make any sense, as tents would take up less visual real estate, but she shrugs and claims a spot directly behind a gray camper van that’s so small it’s a stretch to classify it as an RV at all. But, well, it works in Rey’s favor, so she’s not about to argue.

Next is campsite setup, which she flies through. Tarp down. Tent up. Rainfly on. 

After that, she clicks the top of her brand new pen with her thumb, and it comes through for her beautifully, writing out her name and site information like it’s nothing. Because, honestly, that’s exactly what it _is._ Nothing. 

Signs, symbols, markings. Letters on a page.

By the time she hangs up her reservation, she’s back in her body, hands practically quivering, chest thrumming once more with barely contained excitement. 

This—this is _it._

The ocean. 

The _ocean._

Before she knows it, she’s out of the site, across the street, down the cliffside stairs, and—

There’s driftwood. 

An upturned forest of the stuff. A long stretch of beach, the sand dark and visibly wet. A rocky island just off in the distance. And before and beyond that—

Water. 

So much water. An incomprehensible amount. 

For all she’s heard of oceans and waves and tides, it’s surprisingly flat here. A placid, peaceful line. A deep grey-blue that extends on and on, seemingly forever. 

_ Low tide, _ Rey thinks stupidly.  _ This is low tide. _

She flings off her boots without conscious thought. Takes off her socks. Makes her way straight to the water like it’s calling her name, the sand startlingly cold and compact and  _ wet _ underneath her feet, between her toes. 

The air is bracing. Salty and wet. 

When she reaches the water, she stops, toes hovering and scrunched at the tide line. The water laps, forward, then back, but doesn’t touch her; doesn’t pass that visible, invisible line. White froth stalls out at her scrunched toes, tiny bubbles popping one by one. 

The water moves and the light glints off of it, and it’s everything she thought it’d be and more. So much more. So much better than the stories she’s read and the movies she’s seen. Entranced, breath held, she takes a cautious step forward, then jumps in with both feet.

It’s frigid. 

Freezing. 

_ Wonderful. _

Rey grins. 

She lifts a foot and splashes again. Stomps, really, like she’s stepping into a rain puddle. Water flies up and out again, soaking her cuffed hiking pants, climbing higher up her legs.

Another step, another splash. 

Her feet are even getting used to it now, in a way. She’s numb below the ankle, and it feels oddly nice, not feeling anything at all. She rolls her pants up higher and takes another step. Again and again, until the water surrounds her, licking her calves.

The horizon is no closer, the dark blue line of the ocean immense. It pulls, even now, as flat as it is. The sand beneath her feet rushes with each lap of the tide, jostling her forward. Rey digs her toes further into the sandy depths, but even then, she feels the movement. Feels the pull. 

She stands there as long as she is able. 

What would it feel like to swim?

**҉ ҉ ҉**

She trudges back to the campground, boots dangling in her hands by their laces. Her feet are so numb she can hardly feel the asphalt road. Beneath that numbness, though, there’s another part of her that definitely _can_ feel it, the cracked gravel surface unforgiving, her bright pink feet soft and stinging and sore. 

She shouldn’t have stayed in the water for as long as she did. 

She doesn’t regret it, though. If not for the siren song of lunch, she’d probably have stayed in the water for even longer, til her toes pruned up and popped right off. 

Brushing off the sand caking her feet with her hands had proved ineffectual to say the very least, so now she’s limping across the road and over to the water spigot, half-impatient, half-distracted. She drops her shoes and socks to the prickly grass, then plops herself down too. It takes her a moment to wash off her feet, then a second more to massage some life back into them. As she does, fingers digging into her cold, pruney toes, she catches a rumbling movement out of the corner of her eye, causing her to look up and survey her surroundings. 

The spot next to hers is empty of the white camper van. 

But also not empty at all.

There’s a large RV actively pulling into it. 

It’s shiny. Black.  _ Familiar. _

Rey’s stomach drops, and her brain short-circuits.

No.

It’s all she can think.

Just— _ no. _

She’s off the grass in an instant, striding across the pavement at a stalk that’s more like a painfully aggressive hobble. 

The RV pulls into park as Rey reaches its side door. 

Her fist bangs on the tinted window, loud and long and insistent, until her knuckles hurt. Until she thinks it might break. 

The door flies open, and she backs up just in time. 

_"What?"_ Ben barks, eyes narrowed, face twisted in fierce annoyance. Then his eyes widen, taking her in, and all outward signs of his aggression vanish. “Oh. Rey. It’s you.”

Rey’s outstretched hand flies to her hip. “Oh. Yeah. It’s  _ me. _ What are you doing here, Ben? Are you  _ following _ me?”

“What?” Ben coughs. His dark brown eyes are still wide, like he’s in shock. He takes a small step back. Rey doesn’t buy it for a second. 

“Are. You. Following me?” 

“What?” he repeats, more intelligibly this time. “Of course not!”

She points behind her, over to her tent. “There’s my spot right there. And now here you are right here.” She spreads her arms wide. “Care to explain?”

“Coincidences happen, maybe?” Ben tries, seemingly bewildered. His hair falls forward, and he doesn’t push it away. 

Rey laughs in his face. 

“Look,” Ben says, furrowing his brow down at her. “I reserved this spot weeks ago, before I ever met you.  _ See _ ?” He points to his lot number. A familiar, official-looking piece of white paper hangs from the small metal signpost. His name is, indeed, written there—only the “ _B_ ” in Ben is so carelessly scrawled that it looks like an “ _R_.” 

Rey blinks at it, then swings her face around to him. Her jaw locks. “Well, I’m not moving.”

Frowning, Ben crosses his arms. “You did the first time.” 

“Yes, well, that was because I was in a reserved spot, and someone was coming later that day.” Her tone sharpens. “I’m not in one now, and I don’t plan on moving.”

There’s a slight pause, where Ben just looks down at her. “I wouldn’t ask you to.”

“Yeah? Well, I wouldn’t move even if you _did._ I like my spot. It’s close to the water.” 

“I’m aware,” he says slowly, like she’s stupid. “It’s why I picked mine. And then reserved it. Two months ago.”

Rey bites back a knee-jerk  _ fuck you _ in favor of snarling up at him. 

It’s as ineffectual as trying to intimidate a tree. He’s utterly unmoved, so she tears her eyes from his in favor of staring at the bright florescent lights over his shoulder.

Her teeth grind together. Air rushes out her nostrils. She’s so angry she could spit. 

But—what he’s saying... may actually make sense. 

And she might have just blown up at him for no reason. 

Maybe. It’s possible.

Her face scrunches in displeasure. 

When she glances back at Ben, he’s looking down at her, but he doesn’t appear angry or upset by her outburst. If anything, he looks amused. Like she’s  _ amusing.  _

Rey scowls again. “Well, bully for you, then,” she bites out, then turns and stalks off toward her tent without another word. 

She makes it most of the way there before realizing she’s barefoot. 

Fists clenched, fingernails cutting into her palms, Rey halts. Inhales deeply through her nose.

Her socks and only pair of shoes are still over by the spigot. 

As gracefully as she can, she limps back across the street, grabs her things, and then makes her way to her site again, muscles tight, shoulders up around her ears, body vibrating with frustration. Ben watches her the whole way. She doesn’t turn, doesn’t look at him, but she can feel him somehow. And he can go to hell.

She doesn’t give him the satisfaction of a backward glance. Shoes in hand, she snatches a bag of trail mix from her bike and crawls into her tent the only way she can fit—on her hands and knees. 

**҉ ҉ ҉**

✨Frands✨  
  
**Today** 3:14 PM  
Why are people assholes?   
  
**Not Delivered** Why can’t everyone just be us?  
  
  
**Not Delivered**

  
Your message was not sent. Tap "Try Again" to send  
this message

Try Again  


CANCEL

Not delivered, she reads. 

Not delivered. 

Your message was not sent. Tap “Try Again” to send this message. 

She does not.

**҉ ҉ ҉**

After fifteen minutes of furiously munching on trail mix and scowling at nothing, Rey pulls on her socks, shoves her feet in her boots, and exits the tent. She’s not going to stay put a moment longer, staring up at that forest green canvas like a teenager pouting in their room. Won’t let him—or  _ anyone, _ herself included—keep her from enjoying this place. 

She grabs her daypack, fills up her water bottle, and marches back down to the beach. 

There’s an island in the distance. And she’s going to walk to it. 

**҉ ҉ ҉**

She does not, in fact, end up walking to it. 

Like landmarks in the desert, the island had actually been much farther away than it had originally appeared. After an hour of walking down the beach, she decides to turn back. To perhaps try again later—drive down the road on her bike first, then cut back to the beach and head for the island that way. 

The walk isn’t a waste, though. She collects two small rocks, a fully intact sand dollar, and three large conical seashells. She tries holding one up to her ear like she’d seen in gifs of  _ The Little Mermaid, _ but they must be the wrong kind of shells, because she doesn’t hear anything. 

She sure smells something, though. It’s salty, and it  _ stinks. _

Probably because one of them is actually a  _ crab  _ shell. Rey shrieks before tossing it away from her, back to the beach. She laughs at herself. At the absurdity of everything. 

The water remains flat through the entirety of her walk, though it creeps closer up the beach now, an incoming tide. 

There’s driftwood  _ everywhere. _ Along the entire stretch of sand. At the stairs, a sign states driftwood fires are allowed but only on the beach. Her smile widens. 

She’s in a much better mood when she climbs back up the steps to her campsite. 

Ben’s  _ recreational vehicle _ is still there, but her smile doesn’t so much as waiver. Honestly. Not even a little.

Still, as she approaches her site, gait even, posture cooly causal, eyes straight ahead, something catches her attention. And how could it not? The something is at her campsite, after all. 

A white plastic grocery bag on her picnic table, its handles tied in a loose, looping knot. 

Brow furrowed, Rey walks over and lifts it with curious, cautious hands. The bundle is rectangular, half a foot long, and surprisingly heavy. The plastic crinkles, rustling as she unties the handle; whatever’s inside had been double-wrapped, likely to protect it from any potential rain. When she unties the second set of handles and pushes the plastic away, she finds a familiar white and yellow bag. 

_Domino,_ it reads in large blue italic letters.

Rey nearly drops it, her mouth gaping open.

_Sugar._

He’d bought her sugar. 

She whirls around to face the RV, confident Ben will be there, peering at her through the window blinds she isn’t even sure he has, but no. His windows are still tinted. His lights are still turned off. She blinks, shaking her head before focusing on what’s real—the bag still in her hands. 

The sugar is small but weighty. Four solid pounds if not more. There’s a price sticker on the back, hastily and ineffectually ripped off. By the looks of things, this small bag had cost him eight whole dollars. 

Rey chokes out something that might be a laugh. 

Then she wraps the sugar back in the plastic bags, cinching the handles tight. Doing a nice thing doesn’t make him a nice person. 

Still, the gesture is—

Something. She doesn’t know what. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, not sure if it made a difference to anyone, but coding the ios message in this chapter was an Actual Nightmare. apparently you can't nest divs on ao3?? ANYWAY
> 
> hope you enjoyed, sweets~! let me know your thoughts below ⛺️❤️✌️


	3. hot spot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think i speak for everyone when i say this winter blew absolute chunks
> 
> also, and only semi-unrelated, if you think rey deserved to end up in a desert after everything she's been through instead of a place with _water_ and actual _trees_ , you can line up to fight me

Morning comes quickly. 

Rey’d gone to sleep early, when the sun was still out. She wakes in blue darkness, a little before five in the morning, and snatches up her daypack. Fills up on water. Puts her headlamp on and treks down to the beach. 

When the soft light of morning cracks pink across the sky, Rey is ready and waiting, sitting on an upturned driftwood log, staring out at the ocean with her elbows resting on her knees. 

Her camp stove burns. The water in its small metal pot steaming, bubbling, boiling. Finally. 

She turns off the boiler, pours the hot water into her dented enamel mug, and stirs in two heaping sporkfuls of instant coffee. 

The resulting drink is weak, burnt, and bitter. Hot, too. So hot it scalds her tongue. Rey blows on it heavily before taking another sip. 

_Perfect,_ she thinks. 

_It’s perfect._

She huddles there on her small driftwood bench, nursing her steaming cup of coffee and staring out at the water, falling into a peaceful sort of trance. She can understand now why some people would want to spend their entire lives doing this. Run through fortunes and make sacrifices just to live by the sea. 

She doesn’t have that kind of money, and she doesn’t have that kind of time. But she does have here. She does have now. 

So she drifts, watching the sun reflect off of the water, and feels content. 

**҉ ҉ ҉**

An hour later, and she’s on her third cup of coffee. She’s still sitting, still staring—at the sun and the tide and at nothing at all—so when a large dark blur appears out in the distance, cutting through the water at a rapid pace, she almost doesn’t register it. Almost doesn’t, but then she blinks and jerks upright. 

Dolphin! 

A _dolphin._

A dolphin come close to shore.

Rey drops her mug, springs to her feet, and _sprints._

A short burst of intensity. A blink, and she’s there. 

Her boots toe the tideline, but momentum and excitement propel her forward. She leans over, almost falling, before windmilling her arms and pulling back. 

Vibrating, giddy, she glances to either side of her, looking up and down the shore for someone to share this with. Dolphins had been an obsession of hers from age six til thirteen, when she’d decided she was too old to have a favorite animal. This, her first time seeing one, feels special. Unreal. Worth pointing out. Her chest bubbles up and over like her camp stove, filled with a past and present longing.

But as she scans the shore, there’s... no one. Flat sand. Open sky. Not a soul around. 

It’s early yet, and the beach is empty. 

The water’s not.

Ahead, the dark blur continues on. Fluid. Fast.

Rey scrambles, scuttling after it. She hops, jumps, peering. 

It takes her far, _far_ longer than is reasonable to realize that the dolphin is, in fact, a person. 

A person in a dark swimming cap and full-body wetsuit. A person who’d paused mid-stroke after catching sight of Rey bouncing on her toes at the shoreline. A person, real, alive, and looking directly at her. 

Rey freezes. 

The person treads water.

And then they turn and begin a smooth, efficient freestyle stroke toward the beach. Toward _her._

Rey’s stomach sinks. 

Her caffeine haze, her yearning childhood delusions—those evaporate. Are gone in an instant, a rug pulled out from under her. 

A loud, insistent part of her is screaming, demanding that she turn tail and run—back to her campsite, back to her tent, away from this person. But she plants her feet through it, not about to look—or run—away. 

When the person gets close enough to stand, though, and starts trudging through the water, Rey’s stomach sinks even lower, a hard leaden weight, and her resolve to stay nearly crumbles. Because it’s _Ben_. 

Rude Ben. Asshole Ben. 

Her here’s-an-entire-bag-of-sugar neighbor _Ben._

Of course. Of course it is.

Her fists clench reflexively, and her eyes go so wide they start to hurt. 

And then he gets closer.

And then it gets worse.

His wetsuit is dark gray and clinging. So tight it highlights every ridge and plane and ounce of fat on his body—or would, that is, if he had any fat to show. But he doesn’t. 

He absolutely doesn’t.

He looks more action figure than human as he strides out of the water, and Rey, who normally _does not notice these things,_ finds herself blindsided by the rising maelstrom in her gut. The hard leaden weight in her stomach splits, cracking open. From it springs a terrifying swirl of embarrassment, confusion, and— _and_ —

She buries the _and._

Stomps on it. Takes a deep, ragged breath. Throws her focus to something, _anything_ else. 

Like the black swim cap he’s wearing. How it’s far too small for him and causes his head to look all funny-shaped and out of proportion. Thank goodness.

Water splashes out around his shins as he strides closer, and despite the last screaming call of her fight-flight-freeze hindbrain, it’s too late to do anything now. So Rey raises her hand and gives him an abbreviated little wave. 

Instead of ignoring her again like she half-expects him to, Ben’s mouth quirks up. He raises his own much larger, currently bandaged hand, and gives her an identical wave back. 

It’s cute, and maybe also close to mocking, and Rey’s eyes drop to the sand before flicking back to him. 

To him stopped and standing not two feet away. 

He is— _tall._

Tall, and breathing heavily. 

Tall, and very close. 

His broad chest rises and falls, an echo of his previous exertions. His wetsuit fabric stretches tight and tighter still.

He wipes at his face in that gruff way men do, rubbing roughly around his eyes. Beads of water slough off in his hand and cling to the neatly-applied ACE bandage wrapped around his palm and knuckles. His fingers are a bright pink from the cold. Absently, impatiently, he shakes his hand, then pulls at his tiny black swim cap. 

The Lycra stretches, exposing large, pale ears before a curtain of black hair falls, covering them. A curtain of glossy, wavy, perfectly dry black hair. 

It looks soft. Shiny. Tousled.

Hair doesn’t even look that good in commercials. How does his hair look this good now? 

“Good morning, Rey.” 

Rey blinks, ripping her eyes away. Back to him. 

Ben is standing stiffly. He’s gripping his swim cap in both hands like he’s close to wringing it, and Rey takes another deep breath as his words register. 

Words. 

Talking. 

He’s been standing here, and she hasn’t said anything yet. _Jesus Christ._

“Uh, yeah. Morning.” She swallows. Stares fixedly at the bright pink line across his forehead. The indent there, and not—anything else. “Have a, um, nice swim?”

“No.” 

Rey starts. Her eyes flick down to his. “Oh.”

Ben shifts his weight and frowns. 

Rey bites her bottom lip and nearly frowns, too. 

“Sorry to hear that.” She smoothes her hands over her poncho and has to remind herself not to lock her knees. “I hope I didn’t—I hope it wasn’t because of me.”

“Why would it - ?” Ben’s hands still. He shakes his head and barks out a short, sharp, mean-sounding something. “No. Oh—oh, that’s _funny._ No, it wasn’t you, Rey. I’ve just let myself get out of shape is all. I couldn’t have swum much farther if I’d tried.” 

Ben squints, then huffs, wiping his eyes again. They’re noticeably irritated. An angry pinkish-red. 

“Didn’t even remember to bring goggles, like an _idiot,_ ” he continues curtly, muttering under his breath, almost to himself. 

Rey opens her mouth to commiserate, then shuts it just as quickly, because saying, _I only just saw the ocean for the first time yesterday, and I’ve certainly never swam in it—or anything at all, actually,_ feels decidedly like an overshare. She settles on a sympathetic noise instead.

At her soft tutting sound, Ben’s lips tighten. He shakes his head again like he’s only now remembering she’s there. “Sorry. What did you—did you need something?”

Rey looks away, down at the water. At the tide crawling closer and closer to her feet. 

Neck hot, bottom lip back between her teeth, she scrambles to think of a response. Because, firstly, _no_. As has been established, she does not need something from him—or anyone at all, for that matter. 

And secondly, lastly, and perhaps most importantly, she is not about to tell this man she thought he was a _dolphin._ There is no fucking way. 

“I wanted to apologize for blowing up at you yesterday,” she says instead, sounding like a halfway decent liar. “And to thank you,” she adds immediately, and at least that part’s true. “For the—gift.”

Harshly exhaled laughter nearly cuts her off. The sound puffs out of him, almost strangled. 

Rey stiffens, and her eyes fly to his face, but he doesn’t look like he’s laughing _at_ her. No. Not at all. 

“You don’t need to apologize to me, Rey. I know I’m an asshole.”

“Still,” she protests, even as she agrees with him completely. “I should’ve heard you out. What I did—the way I went about it—it wasn’t nice.”

Ben snorts. “Yes, well, I’m not exactly _nice_.” 

His candor hits unexpectedly, causing a small smile to escape her. Before she can pull it back, a laugh slips out, too. 

Rey tilts her head, considering him. “No, you’re really not, are you?”

Ben lifts one shoulder and shrugs. He sends her a close-lipped smile, all quiet, self-deprecating amusement. It’s worlds better than his self-deprecation spiral of moments ago. 

Their smiles meet and fade as a gust of wind blows forward off of the water. 

Ben’s large back shields her from most of it, but then it billows, swirling around them. Rey pulls her arms under her poncho as it reaches her. Wraps her hands around her stomach. Lifts her face up into it and closes her eyes. 

The wind plays across her cheeks. Is cold and rich and wet against her skin. Inside her lungs.

The air is so different here. So different from what she’s used to. 

She may never get enough. 

When she opens her eyes, Ben is squinting down at her, an intense expression on his face. Strands of his dark hair have flown forward, covering his forehead, falling into his reddened eyes. He swipes at them with an absent hand, and they sweep back artfully. 

His hair has a slight curl to it. The ends are soft, dark and wavy. They flutter just above his shoulders. Almost brushing. Not quite touching. 

Rey’s tongue darts out to wet her bottom lip. Her fingers twitch, then tighten around her ribcage. She leans closer to him. And the tide leaps forward in one sudden, furious rush. 

Rey yelps, scuttling backward several feet. 

Her boots are wet. Her _ankles_ are wet.

She bends to inspect the damage, touching along the dark brown leather, but she’s kept these boots for a reason. They’re sturdy, solid, and waterproof. Her feet are dry. 

“You alright?” 

Ben is looking down at her with what might be concern. 

Rey stands with a shaky laugh and brushes imaginary sand off of her pant legs. She feels mildly foolish. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.” 

Ben nods. 

The tide recedes. 

Ben steps closer. Closer to her, and out of the water. 

He’s wearing skin-tight black booties over his wetsuit. Some fancy swim-shoe-type-thing. His feet are—proportional. As large as the rest of him. 

It’s another flash she stomps on. Buries quicker than a thought. 

Ben shifts again, fidgeting. 

And, well. She can bury the thought, but she can't bury him.

He's there. Present. Still awkward, still bumbling, still rude. But maybe he’s other things, too. 

Rey huffs out a breath, feeling torn. 

He’d made a gesture, maybe with ulterior motives and maybe out of the kindness of his heart, but the bag of sugar—it’s something. Effort. More than what most people would have done. 

More than what most people _have_ done.

Rey bites her bottom lip. 

She knows she should get on with her trip, not get caught up and distracted by a rude, awkward stranger who is sometimes sort of nice. 

She knows this. She _knows_ this.

And yet—

“Would you like a cup of coffee?”

**҉ ҉ ҉**

To his credit, he drinks most of it. 

She’d give him a lot more credit if it didn’t look like it caused him physical pain to do so, though. 

He’d accepted the mug graciously enough. Had kept her company while she lit her stove and poured in the last dregs of her water. But now—

Now, his face pinches and contorts as he swallows, like he’s enduring nail-pulling torture instead of her hospitality, and Rey feels every last one of her hackles rise.

It’s not like she’d given him Folgers instant, for crying out loud.

She’d bought Trader Joe’s brand for this trip. The good stuff. 

She uncrosses her legs, straightening them on the sand. Bites back a frown as Ben takes another small sip from her mug and grimaces like he’s drinking bottom shelf Vodka. 

She digs her boot heels further down, trying not to take it personally. A guy like Ben, he probably only drinks espresso. He probably owns his own machine. He probably—he probably brought it with him on this _trip._

Ben inhales, as if preparing himself. Mentally psyching himself up. 

He holds his breath. Squints his eyes. Takes a sip. 

And Rey’s hands just ever-so-slightly _clench._

“You don’t have to drink it if you don’t like it, you know.”

Ben chokes. 

He coughs, sputtering, almost spitting. He pounds on his chest with his bandaged hand, and Rey has the good grace to look elsewhere as he composes himself.

Her boot heels dig further into the sand, making a little trench. 

Ben takes a deep, clear breath. “No. No, ah—I like it.” 

Rey raises both brows but doesn’t look at him. “You do?” 

“Yes.”

“Because it’s okay if you don’t. Like it, that is. I’m not going to get offended.”

“But I do like it.”

“Okay.”

“I do.”

“Sure.”

“You’re good,” Ben insists. “I mean, _it’s. It’s_ good. Hot.” He closes his eyes. “ _Warm._ The right temperature.”

Rey looks up from the sand.

Ben's flustered. Blushing. Lying. 

He hunches down further on the makeshift bench, her seat from earlier that she’d insisted on him taking. Because it’s so low to the ground, and because Ben’s legs are so long, his knees are close to his chest. Her blue enamel mug is clutched tightly in his left hand. 

In his grasp, it looks like a teacup. Something fit for a doll. 

Her heel moves, and the trench deepens. 

The silence between them is not exactly comfortable. 

“So,” Rey says slowly, unclenching her teeth and dragging the word out. Blindly, she searches for something else to say. This whole thing, it’s clearly a mistake. A moment of embarrassment-fueled insanity. _Clearly._

But, well—she’d made a choice. She powers through. 

“So, swimming. In the ocean. Do you... do that often?”

Ben’s wetsuit is large, expensive-looking and very likely special-ordered. It seems like as good of a conversation topic as any. 

But all Ben says is, “No.”

No.

Period. End of sentence. 

_No._

Rey waits for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t. 

Her eyes close. A pained expression crosses her face, and she doesn’t move to hide it. 

Obviously she’s not the best conversationalist in the world, but Ben is giving her _nothing._ Why even try? 

“I used to, though.”

Wait. 

_What?_

Rey opens one eye. Peeks over at him cautiously. 

Her blue mug is resting on his knee. His eyes are fixed on the water. Staring, not seeing. 

“I’d spend summers out here when I was a kid. At least a week every year. And sometimes, once... longer.” Ben squints at a spot on the horizon. “You’re not supposed to swim out here—or anywhere in the park, really. The water’s too cold, and there’s driftwood everywhere. Rip currents, too. Those are bad here. Deadly.” A muscle throbs in his jaw. “But I swam all through school—elementary, middle, and high school. Even some in college.” His knuckles grow white around the mug. “They couldn’t keep me out of the water, so they didn’t try.”

Rey pulls her legs up to her chest and wraps her arms around them. 

This—hadn’t been what she’d anticipated when she’d asked her question. Not in the slightest. 

“And now?” she asks in a soft, cautious voice.

Ben blinks, brushing away whatever he’d been looking at. 

His focus finds Rey. His face pale, his eyes serious. “And now what?”

Rey swallows. “And now are you going to keep swimming?”

“No,” he says. His favorite word. 

Only, it’s so definitive, the way he says it this time. So certain. And also, inexplicably, sad. 

“This trip, this morning—it’s a goodbye. I’m putting the past to bed.” 

It—okay. Rey can understand that. Can understand moving forward. Moving on. But something about the way he says it makes her offer, unsolicited and unasked for, an alternative. 

“Well, what about swimming somewhere else? You could—you could get a gym membership. At the Y or something. Most have pools you can swim in there, I think, regardless of the season.”

The corner of Ben’s mouth pulls up, and that’s sad, too. “I have a gym membership, Rey.” 

“Oh,” she says, her ears going warm. Of course. 

Men don’t look like Ben without one, and she supposes not putting that together from the start makes her something of an idiot. But how would she know? 

And what, honestly, _does_ she know? About this. About him. 

Nothing, really. His name is Ben. He doesn’t eat sugar. He used to swim. He doesn’t now. 

He’s a stranger. Like almost everyone else.

Why isn’t she treating him like a stranger?

The sound of a throat clearing pulls her back from her thoughts. 

It’s Ben’s sound. Ben’s throat. 

He has a beauty mark there. Right next to his Adam's apple.

Several more dot his pale skin like constellations. Along his jawline. Above his lips. Under his eyes.

He’s watching her. 

Quiet and focused. He shifts his body toward her on the bench, and his neoprene wetsuit, dry now, rubs together, squeaking.

_That_ sound pulls her attention, too. Draws her focus to his thighs, where the noise originated. To the long line of them—large and notably muscular under the skin-tight fabric. 

Rey’s always had a spatially-oriented brain. And lines are so very easy to follow. 

Her eyes only stray for a moment, but it’s enough. 

The fabric is skin-tight there as well, of course. Taut and figure-hugging. His bulge is—substantial. 

Her head jerks sideways, and her gaze locks somewhat desperately onto the driftwood log next to him, smooth and weatherworn, a dark petrified gray. She bites her tongue to keep her eyes in place. To keep from leering any further. Actually places it between her teeth and bites down. 

Substantial had been an understatement, and she fucking knows it. His bulge is _obscene._

At this point, Rey’s cheeks feel heated to the point of flame, but Ben doesn’t seem to notice. And if he’d caught her staring at his crotch, he doesn’t seem to care. 

He turns a little further toward her, wetsuit squeaking once again. “At the risk of starting another argument, are you camping anywhere else in the park this week?”

Rey runs a hand through her hair, brushing it back from her face. Her heart thuds, quick and heavy, in her chest. In her throat. 

Her hand trails down the side of her face. She nods in answer. 

Ben raises his brow at her, scrunching his forehead. The line from his swim cap is still there, but barely. A faded pink indent. 

“And?” he prods. “Where are you going?”

Her fingertips find the pulse point in her neck and settle there. She swallows around her fluttering heart. 

“And let you stalk me halfway around the park again?" she croaks. "I don’t think so.”

Ben’s eyes widen. “No, I. That’s not what I meant. Like I said, I booked everything months - ” 

“I know.” Rey holds out a hand. Without really meaning to or thinking much about it, she touches him on the arm. “I do know. I’m kidding, Ben.” 

Ben stills. 

His bicep tenses, turning into hard muscle. 

Rey pulls back, her fingers tingling slightly. 

Ben swallows. His wide brown eyes take in her face, searching. 

“Okay.” His eyes sweep her face again. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

She sends him a reassuring smile. “You don’t.” _Now, at least._ “Besides, I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.”

Ben huffs out a laugh. “No shit. I thought you were going to kill me the other day.”

“Oh, yeah? Which time?”

Ben laughs again, much harder this time. 

His head shakes as his laughter tapers off. His lips press together, and his eyes glint brightly, almost dancing. 

He doesn’t say anything for several long seconds, seeming content to sit in their shared moment. Then, without her doing anything at all, his lips quirk up slowly, like he can’t help it, and he shakes his head again. 

He has dimples. 

Rey’s chest feels warm. 

Smiling wider, almost grinning, she says, “Rialto.”

Ben tilts his head. “What’s that?” 

“Rialto. Rialto beach. That’s where I’m going next. Soon. Friday. Whenever that is. I’m meeting some friends there.”

_I’m meeting my only friends there,_ she thinks. 

And then, shortly after, _I wonder what they’d think of you._

Ben turns to look out at the water. He nods once. “You’ll like Rialto. Make sure to set aside time to watch the sun set over the sea stacks. It’s stunning.”

That does sound nice. 

Rey smiles at his profile. “Okay. Got it. Any other tips?”

“Yeah. Plenty. I was just there.”

“Oh.” Rey’s mind stutters, mentally jerking like she’s taken another step at the top of the stairs. She inhales deeply. “You were?” 

“Yes. If you stop by my site later today, I can give you some maps if you’d like. All the hikes that are worth going to are circled on them.”

“That’d—” Her smile is wide, forced, and frozen. “Yeah, that’d be great. Thank you.”

“Sure thing.”

Rey fights to keep her smile in place. 

Ben doesn’t look at her. 

A dog barks. 

Out in the distance, the sound unmistakable. And, honestly, welcome. 

Down the beach, there are several scattered silhouettes. Two barking dogs run, jump, and tussle, chasing after a whitecapped tide. A small tangle of people trails behind them. Further back, another group walks on, their silhouettes shrinking with every step.

It’d seemed only moments ago that she’d turned, searching left and right for other people, and found herself alone. 

Well, not entirely alone. 

Ben had been there.

Then, and still. 

“It’s gotten late,” she says, as a small child is swung up onto a man’s shoulders. 

It hasn’t, really. It’s maybe half-past seven. 

“It has,” Ben agrees solemnly. “I'd better go.”

“Okay.” Rey blinks again, pulling back into their little alcove. “Sure.” 

Awkwardly, Ben stands. 

He winces as he does, his wetsuit rubbing together again, like the fabric's irritating him or is perhaps just too small. As if on automatic, his hand moves down across his stomach. Then it halts, aborting its trajectory. 

Its destination had been clear enough, though. 

He’d nearly adjusted himself in front of her. 

Utterly transparent, he rests his hand on his stomach, like that had been his intention all along. “I haven't eaten breakfast yet,” he says, his ears tipped pink. 

To keep herself from looking up at him, from thinking about him, Rey stands, too, clambering to her feet and causing sand to spill from her lap. It falls around her in a little cloud. 

On the ground, there’s an indent where she'd sat, like what she imagines the bottom half of a snow angel might look like.

She drags her boot over it, erasing the thought.

Turning, she busies herself by packing up her stove. Packing up her things. Putting her empty water bottles and her bright blue headlamp and her glass jar of instant coffee and her single metal spork back in her daypack. 

She takes stock of everything, counting, then turns, almost spinning, looking for her mug. 

It’s in Ben’s hand. 

He’s—still there. Standing. Staring. 

Her tall tree on a driftwood beach. 

Rey doesn't know what to do with that thought, though, so she doesn't do anything at all. She shakes her head slightly and exhales through her nose. “Ben, can I ask you something? And can you tell me the truth?”

He looks at her cautiously. Judging by his expression, it seems like he expects her to ask him for a thousand dollars or his deepest, darkest secret. He nods anyway. 

“Did you _really_ like the coffee?”

He averts his eyes, looking down at the mug in his hand. He swirls it slightly. 

Rey can see the exact moment he decides to swallow the lie. 

“No,” he says. “I didn’t. But—I liked that you made it for me. That you offered."

Rey nods and adjusts her daypack on her shoulders. 

She accepts the mug from him. Inside, there’s a good two fingers of coffee left. She doesn’t hesitate in downing it, not about to let it go to waste. 

It’s cold and bitter and watery. She still thinks it tastes good. 

His answer tastes better. 

**҉ ҉ ҉**

✨Frands✨  
  
**Today** 7:44 AM  
sos   
  
**Not Delivered** I don’t know what the fuck is going on with me rn   
  
**Not Delivered** you guys should be here right now  
  
  
**Not Delivered**

  
Your message was not sent. Tap "Try Again" to send  
this message

Try Again

CANCEL

**҉ ҉ ҉**

Rey eats a can of kidney beans for breakfast. 

She doesn’t heat up her stove. She doesn’t pour them into a pan. She eats them straight from the tin, all in one sitting. Shovels them, bite after bite, into her mouth like a hamster, hardly even pausing to swallow.

She chews and thinks and chews and thinks and shoves another bite into her mouth. Swallows, finally.

The process repeats, over and again. Until her spork scrapes against the bottom of the metal can. Until the image of Ben’s wetsuit-clad ass walking up the cliffside stairs in front of her stops flashing back into her consciousness. 

This morning had been all over the place. Between the mistaken sighting and the wetsuit situation and the easy way she’d smiled at him despite everything that’d come before, it’s too much to think about. Too much to consider.

So she doesn't. Consider it.

Especially, especially not the easy way he’d smiled back.

No, thinking about it isn’t going to help. So she fills up her water bottles at the pottable water station. Rinses out her empty kidney bean tin. Tosses it in the recycling, then goes to brush her teeth.

Minutes later, and she’s at her bike. 

On her bike. 

Driving.

Going, going, gone.

**҉ ҉ ҉**

  
**Today** 10:37 AM  
  
  
**Not Delivered** Look!! Isn't this the most beautiful thing you've ever seen???   
  
**Not Delivered** I tried to walk to it yesterday like an idiot   
  
**Not Delivered** Drove down today instead  
  
  
**Not Delivered**  
**Today** 11:22 AM  
  
  
**Not Delivered**  
There’s a tiny little hole in the side leading out to the water. I sat in it and watched the tide for maybe half an hour. You’d have loved it Finn   
  
**Not Delivered** And you too Poe, I guess    
  
**Not Delivered**

**҉ ҉ ҉**

The asphalt is dark here. The road almost black. 

She flies over it as she drives back to her campsite, the wind buffeting her loose clothing, the tall trees blurring over her in an amorphous green line. 

The road twists and curves.

She passes one car. Two cars. Another.

She comes to the hyperrational realization that she likes Ben. 

Is _attracted_ to him, rather. 

The distinction is an important one, because, really, they’re not the same thing.

Attraction doesn’t have to mean anything at all. 

It never has before.

**҉ ҉ ҉**

As she pulls into the campground, she considers when she should go by Ben’s for the maps. _If_ she should go by at all.

Her first thought is _never._

Her second thought is muffled by her internal screaming.

Her reality is _right-the-fuck-now._

She idles into her campsite parking spot, throws her kickstand down, and immediately notices Ben. There. Outside. Difficult to miss. 

He's settled in and sitting at his site's picnic table.

Rey swings her leg over her bike and stands as discreetly as possible, but motorcycles don’t exactly make for a quiet entrance. Ben had likely clocked her as soon as she turned into the campground. His attention seems like it hasn't wavered for even a second since. 

When he catches her looking at him, though, he sits up straighter. His face brightens slightly. He _waves._

Had he been waiting for her?

How long had he been waiting for her?

“Got some maps together,” he calls. He’s in normal clothes. Well, normal for him, anyway. Black pants, plaid shirt, black jacket. All nice, namebrand outdoorsy clothes that look like they haven’t seen a second of wear.

Rey puts down her helmet and walks over to him in a daze. 

A small white ceramic mug is next to him. The old, raggedy Tolkien book from days before is splayed open to a spot halfway through. Papers cover another good portion of the table in front of him. 

Not papers, she corrects herself. _Maps._

Large, old-fashioned maps. 

Huh.

“Hello.” Ben ducks his head and picks up one of the comically large maps. Then he unfolds it on the table, nearly doubling its size. “I have a few hikes for you if you’re still interested.”

His hair is damp and slicked back a little, like he’d showered in the last hour or two. Absently, he tucks a damp lock of hair behind his left ear, exposing it. Then, just as quickly, he untucks it. Pats it back down. 

The self-conscious gesture does something to her stomach. Makes it both swoop and expand and feel like it's going to collapse in on itself.

It’s not often that she finds someone attractive. 

This is just the brief, short-lived adjustment period. That’s all. 

Rey sits, folding herself onto the bench. Directing all of her attention to the frankly staggering number of maps displayed on the table, she leans over, inspects them, and raises both brows. "Where'd you get these from? The 1970s?"

Ben snorts, then makes an enigmatic expression. "Yeah. Something like that."

He nudges the map he'd just opened. It's old. Yellowed, thick, and permanently creased from folding, like a checkers board. 

“I don’t know if you and your friends had a lot planned already...” he starts, and then doesn’t say anything else.

It takes Rey a moment to realize he’d meant it as a question. 

“Oh—I. Kinda.” She turns slightly. Her hand goes for her back pocket and brings out her phone, which is currently hovering somewhere around 9% battery life. She swipes the screen open and then moves to pull up her downloaded maps. “I’ve got a few spots marked that we were thinking about.” She frowns. Taps her screen several times. “This damn thing.”

“What’s going on?”

She taps her screen harder, glowering. “GoogleMaps has decided to crap out on me, apparently. Serves me right for trying to use my phone with next to no battery left.”

“I’ve got a charger inside. Do you want to use it?”

Rey looks up. The expression on Ben’s face is sweet. Earnest. Open and willing.

He really means it. 

Her frown dissipates. She shakes her head. “No, that’s okay. I’ve got a portable charger back in my tent." She exhales through her nose and gestures weakly with her dumb phone. "What I could _really_ use is about two whole seconds of service. I’m going to have to make the trek back to civilization later today, and I am _not_ looking forward to it.” 

“Oh, well, I have a mobile hotspot, too, if you want to use it. And my service is doing just fine.”

Rey starts. “Wait, you do?”

“Yeah,” Ben says, nodding quickly. "Let me share the password with you." He pulls out his phone—the newest iPhone available, the giant one with three cameras—and presses his thumb down. It looks normal-sized in his hands.

“Really? Are you sure?” Rey asks, even as she toggles on her Bluetooth setting.

Ben gives her a small, pleased smile. “Don’t worry about it. Just give me one second.” His finger moves over the screen deftly. Then it pauses. Stops.

The rest of him stops, too. 

He’s still, and his face looks a little paler, if that’s something that is even possible.

“You alright?” Rey asks. Her brows knit in concern, and she moves to put down her phone. This had been too convenient, too good to be true. “You don’t have to. It's okay. I can just go later and—”

Ben jerks slightly, coming back to life. “No. No, it’s fine. One second.”

Rey is pretty positive it is not fine. Not judging by the look on his face.

This is probably one of those social situations where she should protest more, backtrack on her request and give him an out. She doesn't. 

“Well, if you’re sure,” she says, trailing off.

But it seems like Ben _is_ sure. Maybe three seconds later, a password is shared with her phone.

A connection to _Kylo Ren’s iPhone_ switches on, granting her 4G service. And, just as it does, before she can really register it, her phone promptly begins to freak the fuck out. 

It buzzes. And buzzes. Over and over.

If it wasn’t on silent, her old, cracked phone would be playing a sonata.

Notification after notification rolls in. Rey reels back slightly, her eyes going wide. Her heart thumping faster.

Missed phone calls. Emails. Texts—both iOS and SMS. 

It’s far too many for the number of days she’s been out of service. Far too much. Her phone thinks so, too.

Her battery doesn’t even give her the courtesy of draining. Her cracked screen just dies. Goes immediately to black. 

But not before she’d read the very last text message from Finn.

**҉ ҉ ҉**

peanut. rey. seriously. give me a call as soon as you get this. i’m so sorry  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my streak of updating right as the archive servers crap out continues!
> 
> not giving up on this one, fear not. thanks to everyone who's reached out and left encouragement in kudos or comment form. you rock. 
> 
> thanks as well to john oliver's [ adam driver fever](https://youtu.be/c09m5f7Gnic?t=210) for kicking me off my ass. there aren't actually redwoods in olympic national park, but you get what i'm saying. 
> 
> will be going through comment replies (and giving this chapter another once over) very soon. 💚🏕️🏊


	4. fine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> spring heard what i said about this winter being hard in my last authors note, said: "hold my beer," then drop-kicked the shit out of all of us.
> 
> i hope everyone's hanging in there. please note this chapter is heavy on the angst; it's in line with where i always planned to take this story but also likely amplified by the times. please be kind to yourselves. 
> 
> huge thanks to [JenfysNest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JenfysNest/pseuds/JenfysNest) for looking over this chapter when my brain was being excruciatingly unhelpful. she is the nicest & the best. any mistakes you see are mine.

Absently, she thinks she might be crying. 

“I’m sorry. I know I should have said something before now, but—” 

She’s not. 

She’s not crying. 

“Rey, are you okay?” 

The raindrops fall and ripple out. Hit and pool on her phone screen. 

Her phone. In her hand. 

“I—” Rey takes a deep breath. “I need to—” Another breath, deeper now. She looks up. “Can I borrow your charger?” 

Ben’s mouth is hanging slightly open. A word sits, partially-formed and heavy, in the gap between his lips. 

The spitting rain continues in his silence. Droplets paint his skin. 

“Please?” 

Ben’s mouth shuts. He stands, the action fluid and purposeful. “Yes, of course. Whatever you need.” 

His long legs swing over the wooden bench of the picnic table. He scoops up the maps, the book, the mug. Gestures over his shoulder. “Come on, it’s right inside.” 

Rey stands and follows him without a word. 

To the door. Over, up, and through. 

Ben steps further in, stooping somewhat, making room for her, flipping a switch along the wall. The fluorescent lights flicker on, white and bright and blinding. 

Her eyes are dry. Burning and slow to adjust. 

“Is everything alright, Rey?” Ben’s tone is low. His voice as soft as she’s ever heard it. 

“I—” _Still alive_? she thinks. _Still alive?_ “—don’t know.” 

“Okay,” he says and doesn’t push her further. 

She blinks again, the room flashing into focus. A USB charger is plugged into an outlet, its cord curled and resting on the same gleaming marble countertop she’d glimpsed mere days ago. 

Ben gestures to it, but Rey is already halfway there. Her hand shakes as she connects it to her phone. 

Stupid to shake, stupid to worry. Not when she doesn’t _know_. 

Everything is going to be alright. Going to be fine. 

_Still alive?_ she thinks. _Still alive?_

Her teeth cut into her bottom lip as she waits for the charge to take. 

Certainly it can’t take this long. Certainly. 

Probably. 

Right? 

The flat of her palm presses against the cold countertop. Her teeth press further and further into her bottom lip. She holds herself down and together this way, fighting to stay in her body. To stay in her body and away from her tumbling, anxious thoughts. 

Throughout, Ben is a fixed presence in the corner of her consciousness. He hovers out of the way, solid, there, and waiting. But she can’t focus on him now. Only the phone. The screen. Her body. 

And her thoughts. 

Her spiraling, terrible thoughts. 

Rey squeezes her eyes shut against them. Squeezes tight, so they can’t get in. _Catastrophizing_. She’s catastrophizing. 

Not everybody leaves her. The worst thing doesn’t always happen. Her love isn’t a curse. 

She opens her eyes. The phone blinks on. 

Notifications roll in, crawling across the screen. 

She doesn’t look at them. Is already at her missed calls and pressing send. 

On the fourth ring, there’s an answer. 

“Peanut, thank god! We’ve been trying you for days!” 

A choked sound escapes her. “Are you okay? Finn, are you alright?” 

“Yes.” It’s immediate. A reassuring rush. “I’m fine.” 

Rey sags like a string has been cut. He’s fine. He’s fine. Of course he is. 

_He’s_ fine. 

She clutches the phone. “And Poe? What about Poe? Is he okay?” 

There’s a half-second pause. “He’s—alright. Better now.” 

“What do you mean, _better?_ ” 

Another pause. Longer than the first. “He might have gotten into a little car accident.” 

“Car accident?” Rey repeats. 

“Just a little one.” 

“But—he doesn’t drive!” 

And he doesn’t. He bikes. Everywhere. He’s militant about it. A righteous crusader for the environment. 

“He wasn’t driving,” Finn says carefully. “He was in the bike lane. And so was—the Tesla.” 

“Then why’d you say it was a car accident?” 

“I thought it sounded better than a bike accident.” 

“It doesn’t!” 

Distantly, she’s aware she’s close to shouting. Her phone is pressed against her cheek. The charger the only thing tethering her to the wall. 

“I’m sorry,” Finn says. “You’re right.” He sounds—tired. Weary. “Poe’s fine, Rey, I promise. It was scary, but he was wearing his helmet. Between that and his preternaturally thick skull, he made it out with just a few scratches and a broken leg.” 

Rey closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. Tries to time her breathing to the rain. It’s falling steadily now, the droplets drumming against the roof of the RV. 

“Jesus Christ, Finn,” she mutters, eyes still tightly shut. “I thought something terrible had happened. I thought somebody died.” 

“Definitely fine,” Finn says gently. “Definitely still alive.” 

Rey lifts her hand from the counter and presses it to her face. “You know how that message sounded, right?” 

“Which one?” he asks, still just as gentle. “I’ve sent you about twenty-five of them at this point, I think, including photos of Poe’s x-ray.” 

“The last one. The last one I saw, at least, was about calling you immediately, and being sorry. And then my battery died.” 

Finn sucks in air through his teeth. “Oh shit. Not the best one to read.” 

“No kidding.” Her hand returns to the counter. The marble is warm where her fingers had been. “You know how—you know how my brain works. How it sounded.” 

“I’m sorry, Peanut. Really. We didn’t realize you wouldn’t have any service _at all_ out there. We’ve been trying to get you for a couple of days. Before you left for Rialto.” Finn takes another deep breath. It’s his longest pause yet. “We... aren’t going to be able to make it.” 

She’d known it was coming. She’s smart and can think on her feet even when she’s so numb she can’t quite feel them. She’d known it was coming, and had braced herself. 

It hurts all the same. 

“That’s okay, Finn. That’s fine. Don’t think about me right now.” 

“No, Peanut, I’m so sorry. I know this meant a lot to you. I’d come, but—” 

“It’s fine.” 

“—the doctor says Poe shouldn’t be alone right now—” 

“It’s okay.” 

“—and he has two physical therapy appointments coming up, and he can’t move around on his own well right now, and—” 

“ _Finn_ ,” she says firmly, cutting him off. “It’s _okay_. I’m fine. I promise. Don’t worry about me.” 

There’s a long, pooling silence. 

“I’ll always worry about you, Peanut.” 

Her throat hollows. Becomes hollow. Hollow and bottomless. A vacuum. A _pit_. 

But, miracle of miracles, when she speaks, her voice is steady. 

“Yeah,” she says, “‘cause you’re an idiot.” She inhales, straightening. Pulling herself together. “And I—you know, _I live here now_. We can come back another time. For another trip.” 

Finn latches onto that thread with both hands. “Yes,” he says. “We can. Any time. Holidays, long weekends. You name it, Peanut, and we’ll go.” 

“Done,” she says. 

The boys are fine. She’s fine. 

“Is that Rey?” an echoey, muffled version of Poe’s voice says. He sounds energized. Floaty. “Let her know I’m suing! That driver didn’t swerve around shit. He was in the bike lane the whole time, and there are witnesses to prove it! Traffic cams!” 

Finn’s voice is hardly audible. She can almost picture it: him turning, facing Poe. “Yes, it’s Rey. No, I’m not going to give you the phone. Not again after you— _hey!_ Don’t you dare try to stand up right now! You know what the doctor said.” The connection clears. “Rey, hi. Sorry, that’s Poe. Do you want to—” 

“You know what,” Rey says, her voice high and quick. “I’ve got to go. I’ve lingered at Ben’s for long enough as it is. But I’ll call you back later, okay? Soon?” 

There’s a beat. 

“Ben’s?” 

Rey winces, tensing. She grasps for the last few pieces of herself. 

“He’s—” she turns, sees Ben sitting not four feet away, staring intently at his phone screen, clearly trying to give her the illusion of privacy. “—a friend.” She takes a breath. “But I really do need to go, Finn.” 

“Peanut, wait!” 

Her muscles lock up. “Yes?” she breathes. 

“Do you—do you think you’re going to come back here tomorrow, or...?” 

“No. No, I—I think I’m going to go to Rialto. By myself. For a little.” She blinks rapidly. “I’m so glad Poe’s okay. I love you. Both of you. I’ll talk to you soon.” 

“Love you too,” Finn says in a hushed voice, concern evident in his every syllable. “Talk to you soon.” 

She ends the call. 

The battery on her phone climbs from eleven percent to twelve. 

Her vision blurs and wavers. 

“Rey, are you okay?” 

She jerks up, shoulders straightening. 

“Fine!” she says quickly. “I’m fine.” She wipes at her eyes before turning around. “I can say it again if you don’t believe me.” 

Ben holds up his hands. His expression is gentle. Cautious, concerned, and—something she can’t translate. Can’t bear to. Not right now. 

“You don’t have to say it again. You don’t have to say anything.” He lowers his hands. His eyes are warm. Tender and searching. “Is your friend okay?” 

Rey nods, a small tilt of her chin. “Yeah. He’s okay. Bike accident, and he broke his leg, but he’ll be alright. He’s a tough guy. A _smart_ guy. He was wearing his helmet.” 

“That’s good,” Ben says. 

“Yeah,” she agrees, wrapping her arms around her stomach. “It is.” 

And it is. Of course it is. 

But it doesn’t _feel_ good right now. This whole thing, this whole situation—it feels shit, really. Massively, hugely shit and unfair. 

She’s glad Poe’s safe. Relieved beyond belief. 

But— 

Her trip. Her _first_ trip. 

And she’s alone. 

Rey blinks several times and swallows thickly. Her throat is too tight, and there’s a pressure building behind her eyes, and she will not cry. She is _not_ going to cry. 

She’s seconds from crying. 

God, she’s so _selfish!_

Desperately, she turns in place, trying to take in her surroundings. Anything to keep herself from falling to pieces. Dissolving into a pile of quivering, shaking nothing. 

Outside, the RV had felt like a behemoth. Inside, it’s smaller. So much smaller. Luxurious in the most absurd way. There’s the marble countertops she’d noted before. Sleek custom cabinets. A built-in microwave. A matching, miniaturized stainless steel refrigerator. Neat, multi-purpose leather seating throughout, too, including where Ben’s currently positioned himself. 

It looks like something out of an HGTV show. _Tiny Homes: Rich People Who Like The Idea of Camping._

Rey lifts a hand and flaps it around weakly. “Your place is—really nice.” 

Ben’s answer is immediate. “This isn’t my place.” 

“Right,” she says, deflating. “You said that before.” 

And, with that distraction out, Rey finds she doesn’t have much left. Ideas, diversions, strength. She clasps her hands in front of her, her right thumb rubbing repeatedly along the inside of her left palm. 

“Do you want to sit down, Rey?” 

“No.” She shakes her head. “No, I’m alright.” 

She should leave. 

It’s raining, yes, but not that hard. It never rains that hard here, and she has the rainfly up on her tent. It would be dry inside. 

It’s right next door. She could make it back there quickly. 

Could take a breath there. Could pull herself together there. 

Could be alone there. 

“Well, would you like a cup of coffee, then?” 

Rey stops wringing her hands. 

Stops and takes a deep breath and looks at him, because surely he can’t be serious. Surely he’s not going to— 

Oh. 

“You’re joking.” 

Ben shrugs, sheepish. “Is it working?” he asks. “I’ve been told I’m not especially funny.” 

“You’re not,” Rey says, but she feels her lips trembling, a wobbly little uptick, and yes, okay—maybe she’s smiling. 

Maybe. A little. 

Ben’s head tilts and his eyes soften. “I can, though,” he says, suddenly and painfully earnest. “Make you a cup of coffee, that is. If you’d like.” He stands up, already moving. “I have a Chemex around here somewhere...” 

Before she can protest or even really register what’s happening, he’s at the cabinets and rifling through them. The inside of the RV is so small, and Ben is so large, that moving to them had been the matter of a single step. 

He makes a frustrated sound and closes both overhead cabinets with a muffled clang. Then he squats, dropping to the floor, and begins combing through the cabinets down below. 

“I—” Rey presses her hand into her stomach. “I can’t drink coffee this late. If I do, I’ll be up all night.” 

Ben pauses his search. He looks up at her from his haunches, strands of hair falling into his eyes. “Lucky you.” 

Rey’s brows knit together. “Lucky me?” 

“I’m assuming that means you can sleep at night in the first place,” he explains. “I’ve never quite figured out how to do that.” 

Her lips twitch again. Another wobbly thing. “Well, I’m sure the afternoon coffee doesn’t help.” 

“True. The nighttime coffee either.” 

Rey shakes her head. “Why am I not surprised?” 

Ben shrugs, offhand, like it’s no matter to him, but he’s doing something with his lips. She stares, trying to decipher what it is. 

And then he lifts up a small green box. 

“I also have tea?” 

**҉ ҉ ҉**

Warmth seeps into her. 

Rey cradles one of his white mugs close, pulling in its heat. Steam rises, wafting off of it. Peppermint and calm. 

She lifts the mug and blows on it before taking another sip. It’s silly, really, how much this helps. The drink. The sentiment. 

_I like that you made it for me. That you offered._

“Thank you,” she says, setting it on the table in front of her. On the coaster he’d put down. 

He makes a dismissive gesture with his bandaged hand. Opens then closes his mouth, like he doesn’t quite know what to say. 

Outside, the rain peters on and out, a gentle fading hum. Inside, another silence comes for them. Rey tries not to let it get to her. Rankle her newly wrought calm. 

She’s being delicate. Volatile and sensitive. 

She adjusts her mug on its coaster. “I—don’t really want to talk about what just happened.” 

“That’s fine,” Ben says. His expression opens into earnest. “You don’t have to. We can talk about anything you want.” 

“Anything I want?” Rey repeats, staring down at her hands. Tension coils in her at the thought. 

After this morning, after everything that’s happened between them—he should know now that she’s not actually _good_ at this. Talking to him. Talking to people. 

But—he’s not either. And he’s still here. Trying. 

“Okay,” she says, and inhales peppermint. Forces calm. “So, uh—what do you do?” 

“What do I do?” 

A flush creeps up her neck, but she keeps her gaze steady. “Yeah. Um. You know, vocationally.” 

Ben squints down at his untouched mug. “I... work in the tech sector.” 

_Tech sector._

So people actually said that phrase out loud. To other people. 

Well, it’s something they can talk about, at least. 

“What part?” 

“Software. Some programming. Some R&D. Less than I’d like, but—it’s the job.” He inclines his head, then asks, “And you? What do you do—vocationally?” 

Rey shifts in her seat. Somehow, it sounds even more ridiculous when he says it. 

“Same,” she says. “Tech for me, too. Not programming or anything, though. I’m a computer engineer.” 

The words leave her before she can think about them. Second guess them, reel them in. He’s the first person to ever hear them spoken out loud. 

Not _I want to be_. Not _I will be._

_I’m_. 

_I am._

A computer engineer. Her. 

The words taste unfamiliar, and almost untrue. 

Can Ben tell? 

She feels like he’s the kind of person who’d be able to tell. 

Surely the senses translate, and he can hear it in her voice. Maybe if he listens closely enough, he’ll hear more; he’ll hear earlier. That she dropped out of high school and studied for her GED online. That she was held back in elementary school nearly twice. That her parents left her at the— 

But Ben must not be listening very closely at all. 

He nods. “Makes sense.” 

Internally braced for an untold number of things that don’t come to pass, she doesn’t quite hear him. 

“Sorry?” she asks, suddenly aware of how tightly she’s been gripping her mug. 

“You’re a good mechanic. It makes sense that you’d be a good computer engineer, too. The skills translate.” 

She very consciously relaxes her fingers. The way he says it, it’s a statement of fact. A truth about her. One he feels confident speaking on definitively. Rey—isn’t sure how she feels about that. 

“You haven’t driven very far yet, so how good I am as a mechanic remains to be seen.” 

Ben smiles. “I’m not worried.” 

Her mouth is dry. “No?” 

“No.” His favorite word. 

She bites her lip, pulse racing. 

It’s nothing like earlier—that fast panicked spike. Now, it’s slow. Liquid. Warmth that spreads through her like that first sip of tea. 

But residual stress bleeds across the difference. And, after everything that’s happened, Rey can only be so brave. 

“So,” she says, and swallows around nothing. “About those maps.” 

**҉ ҉ ҉**

There’s the offshore sea stacks like he’d said before. 

A rocky beach. A sunset over the water. 

And, if she times it right, if she leaves before low tide, a two-mile walk that will bring her to Hole-in-the-Wall, which is supposedly a place that is exactly as it sounds. 

Ben won’t say more besides that. Just that it’s worth seeing. Just that it’s beautiful. 

He repeats that word a lot. 

_Beautiful._

Worth her time. 

Fingers curled, heart pressed down in her chest, she makes her excuses and leaves before she takes up any more of his. 

**҉ ҉ ҉**

Rey steps out of the RV like a television unmuting. 

Her awareness, which had solidified to a sad and solid point deep within her, spreads. 

Water drips from the trees in slow, discordant plops. The same breeze that rustles the branches teases her hair. Makes its way under her clothes. Caresses her cheeks. 

Birds chatter and sing to her. A loud _hello_. A loud _we’re still with you_. A loud _we never left._

_Life_ is loud. It’s happening all around her. It never stopped. 

She takes another step. 

Water seeps out of the ground as she does, and she notices that, too. 

The mud. The fallen leaves. The squelch of each soft tread. 

Ahead, her bike is parked at a slant on the wet asphalt. Droplets pool on the seat. Along the slope of her helmet. Her tent is dry, though. The water wicked off and away. 

She takes another step toward it, then stops, breath hitching. Her phone is fully charged and heavy in her back pocket. Her heart is heavy in her chest. The sad and solid point that stretches, aches, and spreads. 

If she goes back to her campsite, she’s going to cry. 

She’d thought she’d pushed it down. Out. Away. But as tears prick hotly at her eyes, she realizes with painful and debilitating clarity that she hadn’t. It never really left. Never really stopped. If she goes back to her campsite, she’s going to cry. 

And maybe it’s okay to cry. 

Maybe she deserves to cry. 

Maybe... maybe things have been hard for a very long time. 

And maybe— 

She turns around and goes for a walk. 

**҉ ҉ ҉**

Time becomes a strange thing, crawling and evaporating in turn. 

She peels an orange apart with her fingers, and half an hour disappears. Another can of beans gets eaten, and it’s only four minutes gone. 

She goes to the bathroom. Fills up her water at the sink. Sits for a minute. Stares for far longer. 

She hugs close to the campground, never entering her tent. 

Then, for three long, hazy hours, she walks along the beach. Up. Back. Again. 

A group of people roughly her age are playing bocce ball and laughing. A pair of seniors are looking at each other and holding hands. Tourists pull into the parking lot, clamber down the stairs long enough to take photos, then leave. 

Rey thinks about asking one of them to take her photo, too. 

It’s her last day here. 

She holds out her camera and opens her mouth to ask, but no sound comes out. Her feet stick to the ground. People pass right by her. 

Each time she thinks about posing with her hand up, like it’s hanging around a phantom shoulder, her running gag for Finn, it seems like the farthest thing from funny. 

The self-timer on her camera beeps. Red flashes at her as she sprints out toward the water, turning just before ten seconds elapse. When she picks up the camera from the ground to check the photo, that deep ache in her yawns further open. 

A sloping landscape on the widest setting; flat sand, gray water, blue sky. A silhouette in the middle of the image. An outline, hardly visible. 

The photo blips off the screen. She doesn’t take another. 

She leaves tomorrow for Rialto. 

And there’s one last thing she wants to do before she does. 

She just doesn’t know if she can do it alone. 

**҉ ҉ ҉**

She screws up her courage and knocks on the door. 

When there isn’t an answer, she pushes her tongue against the back of her teeth and breathes through her nose. 

She raises her hand. Knocks again. Louder this time. Wrapping her knuckles. 

The door opens. 

“Rey?” 

Ben’s hair is mussed. His voice is groggy. 

She looks up at him, heart hammering in her chest. She has a feeling this is as calm as she’ll ever be around him. 

She doesn’t even need to get used to it. Not with so few hours left. 

“I’m going to start a fire on the beach. Want to come?” 

**҉ ҉ ҉**

There’s grit under her fingernails. Dirt and sand. 

Charcoal, too. On the tips of her fingers. All over her hands. 

She wipes them on her pants and steps back, admiring her hard work. 

_Their_ hard work, really. 

She’d expected to set the driftwood fire alone, only really wanting his company for after, but she’d discovered Ben is a dab hand at this. A regular Boy Scout. 

Their fire burns, hungry and bright. 

Rey sits on a log and stares at it, smoke and wet, salty air filling her lungs. In the distance, the ocean laps steadily. Around her, the blue fades to black. And on the log next to her— 

“I wasn’t sure I’d get to see you again.” 

Rey rubs her cheeks. They’re warm. Hot, really, from sitting so close to the flame. “I know I left abruptly. I’m sorry about that. I—I just really needed some space.” 

“No,” he says seriously. “I get that. Don’t apologize.” A pause. “Are you feeling better?” 

Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “I think so.” 

“I’m glad.” 

The fire pops and smolders, crackling on a wet piece of wood. Smoke rises in a thick plume, blending into twilight. Rey watches it. It’s beautiful. 

She can’t believe she’s here. 

“I feel like we should have some marshmallows right now. I’ve always wanted to roast marshmallows.” 

Ben makes a mildly disgusted noise. “Marshmallows are made with gelatin, which is essentially horse hooves. There are better snacks.” 

Rey finds herself snorting. Smiling. She lifts her palms out to the flame. “I bet you’re a lot of fun at parties.” 

“You have no idea,” he mutters. 

“I take back my comment about you not being funny. You’re hilarious.” 

Ben huffs a laugh. 

“No, truly,” Rey says. “You are. One of the funniest people I’ve met this week.” 

Ben scoffs. “Okay, don't go encroaching on my role, now.” 

“What?” 

“You’re being funny. Cute.” 

The fire is even hotter now, but she keeps up her light tone. “You’re right. I’m sorry. Forgive me?” 

“Forgiven.” 

She hugs her legs. Goes back to staring at the fire. 

Ben takes that time to bend down and reach into the Osprey daypack at his feet. “I can’t offer you marshmallows, but, _”_ glass clinks; a top pops off, bottle hissing, “do you want a beer?” 

Rey hesitates. “I thought drinking wasn’t allowed on the beach?” 

“Yes,” Ben says, and pours the bottle into a clear plastic cup. “Beer?” 

She doesn’t really drink. It’s a bad, expensive habit. And she’s never developed the taste. But... It is her last day. 

“Sure.” 

Ben passes her the one he’d just poured. Foam licks the rim of the cup. 

She waits until he’s poured his own before lifting her cup back towards him. “Cheers,” she says, and clinks their glasses together. Only, it’s not much of a clink with the plastic cups. 

Ben doesn’t put up a fuss about it. Even looks like he might be smiling. 

Rey pulls back and smells it. Takes a tentative sip. 

Froth and bitter hops mix in her mouth. It tastes okay. Strong. Better than she expects. 

She takes another sip from it and settles into the silence. 

But it’s also not really silent at all. Not with the waves lapping, not with the breeze blowing, not with the fire crackling. 

She takes another sip of beer. It’s good. 

“Thank you for inviting me out here, Rey.” 

Rey looks at him. Day has fully faded into twilight, but the fire is strong. He’s all orange highlights. Blue shadows. Sincerity. That’s illuminated, too. 

“Thank you for coming.” Then, softly, like it’s an admission, she says, “It’s better with another person here.” 

It sounds like she means just anybody, but she doesn’t. Ben seems to get it. 

He hums. “It is.” His Adam’s apple bobs as he takes another sip. 

Rey lets her feet down. Rests her hands in her lap. “Have you—how many times have you done this before?” 

“Campfires?” Ben asks. 

She shakes her head. “Beach campfires.” 

“Once or twice,” he says. “But not for a long time.” 

“On this beach?” 

He’s quiet. “Yes.” 

“Is it—when you were a kid?” 

He nods. 

She takes another sip of her beer, using the excuse to think. “Where’re you from anyway?” 

“Here.” 

Rey tilts her head. “Didn’t you visit here as a kid?” 

“No. Ah,” Ben winces. “Yes. I meant—I’m from here. _Around_ here. I live in Seattle.” 

“Really?” Something flexes in her chest, reaching. Her lips pull into a tentative smile. “Me too.” 

She looks over to him. But Ben’s frowning. At her. “Your bike has Nevada plates.” 

“Well, yeah.” Rey’s smile dims a notch. “Okay, so maybe it’s more accurate to say I’m _going to_ live in Seattle. I just got a new job. I’m moving in with—” She pauses, her stomach dropping. “Well, the same people I was on the call with today, actually.” 

“Oh.” Ben’s tone is grave. Serious. Far too serious a response for what had actually happened earlier—but then, he’s merely responding how she’d acted. How she’d overreacted. “We don’t have to—this afternoon, you said you didn’t want to talk about it.” 

“I don’t.” Heat from the fire licks at her cheeks. Her hands. Her exposed skin. Hungry, consuming. She pulls back, swallowing. “But maybe I should.” She adjusts her seat and looks up, uncertain. “That is, if you don’t mind.” 

“I don’t. Not at all.” Serious again. Earnest. 

“Okay,” she says, inhaling. She can do this. Can talk about it. “This trip, why I came here... I—” _Jakku, the desert, her family._ She slumps, “—don’t know where to start.” 

She is biting the inside of her cheek hard enough to draw blood, staring into the fire, when Ben speaks. 

“We can take turns,” he offers, and Rey looks over to him, wide-eyed. His lips are a curved, compassionate line. “I can say something, then you can say something. So it’s—easier. A trade.” 

Rey opens her mouth, numb. Stunned. It doesn’t feel real. The moment. His offer. The way he’s staring at her. 

“Yeah,” she whispers, still looking up at him—dark brow and full lips and kind, brown eyes—until her own eyes start to burn with it. “Yeah, that sounds good.” 

Ben places his beer down on the sand. He nods, as if to himself, and exhales slightly. “Right. To start, the RV—well, I’ve said it isn’t mine, and it’s not. It’s a coworker’s. I’m borrowing it for the week.” 

“Oh,” Rey says. “That was kind of them.” 

Ben scoffs. “Hardly. Hux is a cancer. One of the biggest sycophants I’ve ever met. He’s doing this because he knows I’ll hate it. And to curry favor.” 

With whom, he doesn’t say. 

But it’s honest. And it’s freely given. Something, an offering, that’s true. 

Her turn. 

“This is my first time in this park.” She takes a deep breath, correcting. “My first time leaving Nevada. I’ve never traveled before. Never taken a vacation.” 

His eyes widen. His full lips part. 

For both, it’s only slightly. Barely there, nearly imperceptible changes, especially in the dark. She wouldn’t have even noticed his reaction if she hadn’t been staring so intently, looking so closely, anticipating it. It, and the censure that is sure to come. 

None does. 

Instead of commenting, or addressing it, or dancing around it with a polite cardboard cutout response, he does something no one has ever done for her before. Offers a piece of himself in turn. 

He places his hands on his knees, then says, with all the gravity of a man stepping off a cliff, “I’m on a forced leave of absence from my job right now. Bereavement.” His fingers tighten. “And anger management. I was recorded throwing a chair across the office.” His lips thin. “Also a computer monitor.” 

Rey swallows. Despite the beer, her mouth is dry. Her pulse is racing. She can feel it. In her head. Her throat. 

But, somehow, her throat is also less tight. Less tight than it’s been all day. She can speak. 

“My only memory of my parents is of us camping outside of Great Basin National Park. Only, looking back on it, we weren’t really camping. We were homeless. And then they left me. There, inside the tent. Didn’t come back.” 

The memories cut, like they always do. Promising all manner of false and beautiful things. But she doesn’t buckle under them. Doesn’t hide. Ben’s eyes are on her, steady as a touchstone. 

He nods. Swallows. Stares back into the fire. “My father had terrible blood pressure his entire adult life. He drank, and he smoked, and he always did exactly what he wanted to, too stubborn to listen to doctors or his son or his wife. We had a screaming match. It wasn’t an unusual one. I don’t even remember what it was about. But I screamed at him, and he screamed back, and when I stormed out of the house, he had a heart attack. Right there. In the living room.” Ben’s jaw trembles. “Died on the floor.” 

Her heart is beating louder now. She can feel it. Hear it. Pulsing. Throbbing. 

But as raw as she feels, as flayed open and laid bare, he’s answering in kind. 

The connection between them, the spell they’ve cast—she couldn’t stop now even if she wanted to. 

Another avoidant piece of herself crawls out of her throat. 

“I emancipated myself when I was sixteen. Moved into an apartment with my friend who’d recently done the same. It was the smallest apartment you’ve ever seen and constantly falling to pieces, but we loved it because it was ours. Ours, and no one else’s. We never had to leave, and we didn’t, not for years. And then he fell in love.” 

The fire pops. 

Waves crash. 

And Ben’s throat bobs, his eyes on her. 

“In every way that counts, I killed my father. He died in May. I didn’t go to his funeral.” Ben’s voice wavers. Breaks. “I haven’t returned any of my mother’s calls.” 

Rey’s eyes are burning. 

“Finn fell in love, and I gained a new friend, and then they both moved away. I’ve always fought—so, _so_ hard—against that voice in my head saying they left me, that they’re leaving me behind, but now they’re not coming. And we planned everything for months, and they’re not coming, and I’m—I’m alone.” Her voice hitches. She blinks, hot tears spilling down her cheeks. 

But she doesn’t stop talking. Can’t stop. Not now. 

“I _like_ myself,” she says. “Most days. Most of the time. I like my own company, and I like the person I’m becoming. And I want to be fine, doing things on my own. I’m good at it, and I’m fine with it because I've had to be, but I’m also—so _lonely_.” Her voice breaks on a sob. “God, Ben, I’m _so lonely_. I’m so tired of being alone.” 

Her eyes fall to her lap, and she cries, shoulders shaking with it. Entire body shaking with it. She can’t stop it now. Can't catch her breath. 

Her hands are a blur in her lap. Bundled. A tight, wavering ball. And then— 

And then a hand reaches out. Hovers over hers. Questioning, asking. Long fingers stalling millimeters from her own. 

Ben. 

“You don’t have to be alone, Rey. You don’t—you don’t have to be. You’re a _good_ person.” 

Rey flinches like she's been hit. She shrinks back, reeling. Vulnerable and small. 

He’s broken the spell.

“You don’t know that,” she lets out, shaking. Crying. Heavy like a torrent. “You don’t know me. No one does.” 

“I feel like I do. Like I could.” He swallows wetly. “I want to.” 

Rey’s jaw trembles. Her eyes close tight. Hot tears push through her eyelashes. 

His words—they’re too good. Too beautiful to be true, and exactly what she wants to hear. A lie. “Ben,” she says, opening her eyes. “Ben, I—” 

“Kylo.” 

Rey’s chest stutters. “W-what?” 

Ben is pale. Pale and wincing, like he’s taken a hit. But his hand is still extended. Reaching. “Kylo,” he says. “My name is Kylo.” 

Gravity stops working. 

Her tears keep falling. “But—you—” _The sign. The book._

The wifi network. 

Rey swallows and swallows until she can breathe again. _Kylo Ren_. 

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Through her hurt, it’s all she can think to say. “Why did you lie to me?” 

“I _didn’t_ ,” he says fervently. “I didn’t lie. My name _is_ Ben. I changed it to Kylo when I was twenty.” 

“I—okay. Okay, so,” Rey bites her lip, a frantic attempt to control her breathing. The ragged rise and fall of her chest. Exhaling through her nose, she looks into the fire, and away from the man kneeling in front of her. “Okay. Kylo, then.” 

She inhales wetly. In and out. The fire is right in front of her and a blurred, distant thing.

“I just—I don’t understand,” she says softly, head shaking. “It’s your _name_. Why didn’t you correct me?” 

He’s quiet for a long time. Such a long time.

But then he speaks, and it’s whispered and vulnerable, like he’s confessing a sin. “I like it when you call me Ben.” 

Rey turns to look at him. Turns to look at him, and freezes, because for one consuming, heart-stopping moment she can see right through him. Can see everything and too much in his eyes. 

“Ben.” 

His eyes fall closed. Like he’s savoring the sound. Like he couldn’t possibly do anything else. 

His face is beautiful. Flickering in the firelight. His entire torso sloped and flickering. His neck and his back and his—hand. Bandaged. Bruised. Still outstretched. Hanging weakly, closer to him, but still outstretched. 

Rey blinks away another wave of tears, overwhelmed. Decided. 

She answers his question. 

His eyes open in shock as she threads her fingers through his. 

“Rey.” 

Her name has never sounded like a prayer before. Never sounded like an answer. 

She smiles at him. It’s weak, and it’s tear-stained, and it’s all she can offer. 

His hand tightens around hers, squeezing. Enveloping her completely. 

It’s warm. So warm. His hand in hers. This feeling in her chest. 

And then he smiles back. 

Rey has never been in love before. Never once felt it or been touched by it or gotten close. But she’s never been in this, either. This, whatever it is. 

It makes her think of love. It makes her think of being seen. 

She looks down at their laced hands where they sit on her lap. Ben crawls up on the log to sit down next to her, and then he stares, too, just as intensely, just as entranced. 

Her thumb runs along his palm. She feels right and fragile and full to bursting. Like she might fly. 

They sit, connected, for an indeterminable amount of time. Until the tide rolls in. Until the fire dims. 

“Rey,” Ben says, and his voice is so dry he has to start over. “Rey, can I take you somewhere tomorrow?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> still cautiously trying [twitter](https://twitter.com/AllFrak). come say hi.


	5. you've got you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **FINISHED**

“So you’ll follow me, then?” 

It’s early out, and the world seems softer for it. Hazy white and fuzzy around the edges. 

Rey nods at Ben, helmet resting on her hip. 

“Good. That’s good. It’s only an hour-and-a-half up the road. Easy driving. But if we get separated, there are signs past Forks that’ll point you in the right direction.” 

“I doubt that’ll happen,” she says, amusement coloring her smile. She inclines her head pointedly. “That thing’s a little hard to lose track of.” 

“True,” Ben says, and smiles back. It’s a sheepish thing. Uncertain, too. And vulnerable. 

Rey gets it. 

Things are different in the morning. Harder. There’s less room to hide. 

At her alarm, she’d jerked awake on top of a deflated sleeping pad, exhausted and disoriented. In the night, she’d gotten twisted, turned in a way that left no room for her legs to stretch or her lungs to breathe. Fear had pulsed in her legs like growing pains. Hot, tight, constrictive. 

But then she’d taken a deep breath. Unzipped her sleeping bag, her tent, her rainfly. Stepped out into the light. 

Now, her things are packed. Her campsite left better than she found it. 

And, as she’d decided last night, a pit stop before Rialto wouldn’t kill her. 

She bites her lip. “Can you turn on your AirDrop for a second?” 

Ben’s eyebrows pull together. “Sure.” 

He takes out his phone and clicks around. 

Despite expecting it, Rey feels a jolt of something as the name _Kylo Ren_ flashes on her broken screen. She pauses, staring at the connected letters, before blinking and pressing send. 

A second later, Ben's phone chimes. He stares at it, and doesn’t move. 

“In case we get separated,” she adds foolishly. 

Ben nods, then stuffs his phone into his back pocket. When he looks up, his eyes are brighter. There are dimples in his cheeks. 

Rey’s hand clenches around her phone. Involuntary, immediate—but not in a bad way. Not in an angry way. 

Just in a _what the hell am I doing_ way. 

Just in a _is this is really happening_ way. 

Just in a _this is bigger than I thought and getting bigger all the time and now I might not be able to stop it_ way. 

Still smiling, Ben asks, “Ready to go?” 

Rey takes a deep breath, then releases it. 

“Yeah.” 

Yeah, she is. 

**҉ ҉ ҉**

It smells like sulfur. 

Steam rises from the water and floats upward, hovering like a cloud above the pool. The smell of sulfur rises, too. Strong. Unfiltered. It meets her nose, fills her senses. 

Sol Duc Hot Springs. 

Rey hugs herself, fingers pressing into the damp skin of her upper arms. When they'd arrived, she’d changed, then rinsed off thoroughly in the indoor showers like the teenage attendant had requested after they paid their entrance fee. 

It had been her first shower, or anything approaching a shower, in days. Since before she’d started camping. Since she’d stayed at Poe’s parent’s place; forever and several days ago by her current count. 

Now, her hair is plastered to her head, wet and stringy. Her oversized shirt and polyester running shorts are equally soaked. They cling, heavy and waterlogged, pulling down and against her skin. 

She stands, toes curling around the lip of the large mineral fountain pool. 

_Fountain pool_ , she thinks, nearly laughing. 

It’s a hot spring. Fed by spring water, fueled by gasses from cooling volcanic rocks. Rey has never been in a normal _swimming pool_ before. A hot tub, either. 

This? What’s before her now? 

It's _magic_. 

A thing that shouldn’t be real, but is. 

She inhales, sharp and deep. An intake of breath that holds and holds, sulfurous and warm, wet and _new_. Her chest expands. Her heart fills. 

Fills and fills and fills until she thinks she might break with it. 

There’s so _much_ to the world. So much she hasn’t seen. 

So much she gets to. 

Rey smiles. She hugs herself tighter. 

She turns at the waist, looking over the rest of the modest resort. 

It’s just her here. Her and maybe seven other people. Her and maybe seven other people and Ben. 

Ben who is—standing. Staring. Looking at her from underneath the outdoor showerhead, hands running through his hair and head tilted sideways. 

He is—decidedly not wearing a shirt. 

Which is sensible of him, really. They _are_ at a pool. A _hot spring_. And are about to swim. 

Rey doesn’t know how to swim, and knows she won’t be swimming here, but she finds herself disinterested in the semantics at hand. The small circular pool in front of her is nothing like the ocean and only three feet deep. 

She eyes the shallow step inside the lip of the pool, ignores the _no running, no diving, no horseplaying_ rules she’d diligently read, and jumps in with both feet. 

The water meets her in a rush. 

Weightless. Enveloping. 

_Warm_. 

So warm. Hot, really. 

She sinks to the bottom of the mineral pool, eyes tight, knees bent, and arms out at her sides. Her shirt billows up around her as she does, rising like a balloon. 

Air bubbles out in large pockets when she pushes it down, and she nearly laughs, giddy and disbelieving, but she isn't ready to lose the moment yet. 

She holds her breath for as long as she dares. Until her lungs burn as hot as her skin. 

Then she stands, bursting from the water with a harsh, sucking gasp. She blinks and pushes her hair back as she pulls in another lungful of cold air. 

“Hello again.” 

Rey whirls around, spinning in the water. 

Steam rises, thin and dissipating. Above is Ben. 

He’s seated in the pool. Along the shallow step. His bare arms are splayed back beside him, resting comfortably along the pool’s concrete circular lip. 

He’s so large that the majority of his torso is dry. Out of the water. But there are also a few places where he’s not dry. Remnants from the outdoor shower. Dots pooling at his collarbone, beads streaking trails along his neck. His broad shoulders. His strong chest. Over the muscles there, and down. 

Droplets tapering down and down and— 

“Hi,” Rey answers, breathless. 

Which, well. 

She’d just held her breath. 

Ben’s smile crinkles his eyes. “Like it here?” he asks. 

Rey’s heart pounds. “I do.” She sinks further down, hot water licking her neck. “How could I not?” 

Ben lifts a shoulder. “The facilities haven’t been updated in more than twenty years. And the smell puts some people off.” 

Rey sniffs. “I don’t see what the facilities have to do with anything. And the smell’s not that bad.” 

Ben’s lips quirk. “It smells like rotten eggs.” 

“It does _not_.” 

Only, it does. 

Kind of. 

A little. 

“Whatever,” she says. “So maybe it does. I don’t care about the smell. The water here—” she lifts her arms out to either side of her and tilts her head back; like this, she’s almost weightless, almost floating, “—it’s _gorgeous_.” 

“I think so too,” Ben murmurs. 

And Rey looks up just in time to catch him slide into the small pool with a careful, fluid movement. 

He doesn’t make a splash. The water hardly ripples. 

Rey's heart thumps in her chest. 

Ben walks closer to her, gliding through the water. “I thought you might appreciate it. I didn’t know, wasn’t sure—I just had a feeling.” 

She swallows thickly. “You were right.” 

Ben is close now, crouched low, taking up so much space. “If you like it here, you should try to go see the hot springs in Iceland. The natural springs there, the pools at Mývatn.” 

Rey hums, trying to seem casual. 

But she’s not feeling casual. Not remotely. Not even a little. She’s heated. Flushed all over. 

“Sounds nice,” she says with a breathy laugh. “I’ll put it on my list.” 

And she will. Right next to Disneyland and the Misty Mountains and the waterfalls of Rivendell. 

“You should. I think you’d like it there, too.” 

“Yeah,” she says. "Probably." She lifts an arm, watching as water cascades from it. “But I like it here just fine for now.” 

“I’m glad.” 

Just then, a middle-aged woman in a one-piece bathing suit climbs into the wading pool. She enters right where Ben had been sitting and sinks down up to her neck. It forces Ben to pull up his legs and inch closer to Rey in order to make room. 

“It’s getting busy. You were right about getting here early,” Rey says, right as three guys wearing baseball caps enter the pool, too. 

They grin at her, showing teeth, and she gives them a cautious smile back. 

Ben clears his throat. “Why don’t we move to the swimming pool?” He inclines his head. “You’re right. About it getting crowded.” 

“Oh.” Her stomach drops a little, reality weighing in. But, after last night, the words aren't as hard to say. “I—don’t actually know how to swim.” 

Ben stills minutely. “No worries. We can stay here, then.” 

She shakes her head, frustrated. “No, you go ahead. I don’t want to keep you.” 

“You’re not,” he insists, but Rey can tell he’s lying. He’s getting easier to read. 

“I am, though.” She looks out at the large freshwater pool, a frown pulling at her face. 

It’s just a regular pool. Nothing special about it. Something she’s seen in TV shows and magazines and other people’s backyards. Its normalcy makes it that much more foreign. 

“We could stay in the shallow end,” Ben offers, and Rey swings her head back to him. 

Sweat beads on his skin. Steam from the hot spring has dampened his dark hair, curling it slightly. 

He continues, hesitant. “Or—or I could teach you? How to swim. If you’d like.” 

Rey swallows. Hope stirs in her chest like a fragile, yearning thing. 

“Yeah,” she breathes. “Yeah, okay.” 

**҉ ҉ ҉**

The water pricks her skin. 

Tingles, stinging like needles. 

It’s painful, but in a good way. A reminder she’s alive. 

“You get used to it,” Ben says when she sucks in air through her teeth. “The temperature change—some people like it.” 

As if to prove his point, a lanky, long-legged kid clambers out of the hot spring and cannonballs into the water not six feet from them. 

Cool water splashes Rey’s face, and she laughs, brushing it away. “I see what you mean.” 

She smiles from the handrail and turns back to Ben. 

She slacks her grip on the metal poles at the sight of him. Nervousness commingles with her childish, yearning hope. “So, where do we start?” 

Ben nods, businesslike. “Floating. It's the first step toward getting you comfortable in the water.” 

“Okay,” she says, and imagines his large hands propped under her, cradling her, holding her up. “Sounds reasonable.” 

Instead, he gestures over to the concrete ledge of the pool. 

“Here,” he says. “Hold on to the side. We’re going to practice letting your legs float up behind you.” 

Rey swallows, and tries her best to comply. But her heart pounds in her chest, and her feet sink like lead. 

She lets out a harsh, frustrated breath. 

“That’s okay,” Ben soothes. “We’ll get you there. Here, let me help you. Can I hold your feet for a second?” 

“Sure,” she says shakily. 

His fingers close around her ankles. Large and warm. “I’m going to lift you up now, okay?” 

She nods, and feels her feet rise behind her. 

“Good job.” 

His praise makes her feel self-conscious and a little stupid. Even more so with how much she likes it. 

“You’re still holding onto my legs.” 

“Yes,” Ben acknowledges, “and that’s okay. This is part of the process. We’re getting you used to the water. Getting you to relax. I want you to take a deep breath, and hold the air in your lungs, and I’m going to let go little by little, alright?” 

She nods. “Alright.” 

Ben’s fingers slack in slow, even measures. Her feet dip somewhat, but they stay up. Horizontal. 

They float. 

“Good job! You’re doing it!” 

Rey grins brightly for an unchecked moment before smothering it down. She's still holding onto the pool. 

And besides, children can float. _Babies_ can float. 

She reins herself in. “What next?” she asks, feet still extended, fingertips digging into the concrete ledge. 

“Next, we’re going to get you on your back.” 

Surprised laughter puffs out of her, and she whirls around, feet plunging to the ground. 

Ben winces, backtracking. “I mean, floating. We’re going to get you _floating_ on your back. We’ll do it here in the shallow end, where you can touch if you need to. And I’ll keep my hands on your back until you feel comfortable with me letting go.” He pauses, a splotchy pink. “Does that sound alright?” 

“Yes,” she murmurs. “That sounds good.” 

Her heart pounds in her chest as she wades over to him. 

“Now just tilt your head back, and I’m going to help you float, okay?” 

Rey nods. She leans her head back as instructed. Water covers her ears, and her heart pounds in her throat, and it’s uncomfortable, exhilarating. 

Warm, gentle touches light her back. She feels herself being lifted. Up. Up. 

His hands are huge. Between her shoulder blades. On her lower back. Gentle, careful. 

She’s horizontal now, gazing up at the cloudless gray sky and the tall dark evergreens. And Ben. She’s gazing up at him, too. Towering above her, kind and infinitely patient. 

She wants to kiss him. 

Fuck, she wants to kiss him. 

“Good,” he says, his tone soft for her. “That’s good, Rey. Now lift your arms out at your sides. Yes, exactly like that. Like a T-shape. Yes, that’s right. Good.” 

She’s aware of her racing heart and his warm, careful hands, and nothing else. 

She isn’t sure she’s breathing. 

Ben notices. 

“Try to relax, Rey. It’s okay, I’ve got you. Just take a deep breath.” 

“I’m relaxed.” 

“Rey,” he says gently. “It’s okay to be nervous. It is. But I’m not going to drop you.” 

“I know,” she whispers, her eyes on his. 

She wants to kiss him. 

She really, really wants to kiss him. 

“Good. Now take a few deep breaths. Yes, like that. Exactly like that. Having air in your lungs helps.” 

Her hair sways in the water, and she tries not to shiver as his low, coaxing praise washes over her. 

“Okay, that’s great. Now I want you to relax your muscles one at a time. You’re not going to sink, I promise. I’ve got you. _You’ve_ got you.” 

Rey nods. 

She breathes. Out, and in. Out, and in. 

Tense muscles loosen. Ben’s hands become fingertips. 

“I’m going to try letting go now, okay? But I’ll be right here if you need me.” 

“Okay,” she whispers, and closes her eyes. 

Out, and in. 

Out, and in. 

The water holds her. 

She holds herself. 

“You’re doing it, Rey. You’re a natural!” 

And she is. She is doing it. 

She’s _floating_. 

A happiness she can’t contain rises in her, spills out of her. She laughs. Loud and joyous. 

It’s far too much movement for her newfound buoyancy. 

Her heart jolts, and her eyes fly open, and water laps at her lips, and—Ben’s hands are there. Right there. Holding her. 

Scooping her up. 

He smiles down at her, hazel eyes shining. “Got you,” he says. 

And god, she wants to kiss him. 

**҉ ҉ ҉**

Two hours later, and Rey can swim. 

She is by no means an expert swimmer, but she _can_ swim. 

_Actually_ swim. 

Ben insists on treating her to lunch at the resort’s café to celebrate. Butternut squash and farro salad for him, a cheeseburger and fries for her. 

It’s not something she would have done if she were by herself. Not by a longshot. But she’s not by herself, is she? 

And, well—after skipping breakfast this morning, she would kill for a burger. 

“Say that thing you said earlier,” she says, preening shamelessly as the waiter delivers their food. “About me being a natural.” 

Ben’s smile is indulgent. “You are. My best and only student. Your doggie paddle could win awards.” 

Rey points at him with a fry. “Damn straight.” 

He laughs. And she smiles. 

And she wants to kiss him like an actual ache, so she slathers the rest of her fries in ketchup. 

It’s not until she’s through her fries and about to tear into her cheeseburger that she realizes Ben hasn’t touched his food. 

“What’s wrong?” she asks. 

“Nothing.” 

Her brow knits in concern. “Are you not feeling well?” 

“No, I’m fine.” 

“Why aren’t you eating, then?” 

He ducks his head and fidgets in his chair. “I don’t like onions.” 

“Pick around them.” 

He pokes at a walnut with his fork. “The dressing’s too sweet.” 

He sounds so miserable. She has to laugh. 

Ben looks up. “What?” 

She wrinkles her nose. “You’re kind of a snob, you know that?” 

“Yes,” he says, pink coloring his cheeks. “I know that.” 

He looks defensive, embarrassed. 

She wants to kiss him. Desperately. 

Instead, she picks up her plate and trades it with his. 

“Rey,” he stutters. “You don’t need to do that.” 

“Course I don’t,” she says. “But I want to.” She unwraps her silverware, then points with her fork. “Dig in.” 

Ben just stares at her. 

“I haven’t had any of it yet, don’t worry.” When he still doesn't move, a thought occurs to her. “Wait—are you a vegetarian or something?” 

“No,” he says, and shakes his head. “No, I’m not a vegetarian.” 

She smiles encouragingly. “Have at it, then.” 

A beat, and he gives in. “Thank you, Rey.” 

“No problem,” she says, and focuses on her salad. She’s never had farro before. 

It’s pretty good. 

**҉ ҉ ҉**

Over lunch, Ben describes the rest of Sol Duc. 

The river. The waterfalls. The hikes nearby. 

She isn’t a hard sell. 

“Do you... do you think the campground might have an open spot?” she asks, fiddling with her empty water glass. Ben’s eyes light up, and she adds, “Just for tonight. I still want to go to Rialto this weekend.” 

“Sure. Of course. And yeah, I bet they do. Just let me grab the check, and then we can go see.” 

Rey waves her hand. “No need.” 

“What?” 

“Check’s taken care of. I paid the waiter when I went to use the bathroom.” 

At Ben’s flustered, disbelieving look, her smile turns wry. “Come on. Did you _really_ think I was going to let you pay after you taught me how to swim?” 

“Yes, that’s exactly what I thought.” 

“Well, you thought wrong.” 

“Fine.” He sighs and throws his napkin on the table. “You win.” 

“I’m aware,” she says, and smiles the shit-eating grin she usually reserves for Finn. 

Ben purses his lips at her. 

He stands from the table, grumbling good-naturedly, then holds out a hand to help her up. 

And, yeah. 

She still really wants to kiss him. 

**҉ ҉ ҉**

The campground isn’t far away. 

Like everywhere in this place, it’s beautiful. Stunning in a way she can’t get used to. 

The spot they find for her is at the base of a sloped trail. It butts up to an overgrown wood and is as secluded as she could hope for with such a last-minute acquisition. 

The tent set-up goes much faster with another person. Tarp, tent, rainfly, and time to spare. 

When she finishes blowing up her sleeping pad and throwing it inside her tent along with the rest of her stuff, Ben is squatting down, inspecting the fire pit. 

She walks over to him, bouncing on her feet. 

“Where to next?” 

He stands, brushing off his dark jeans. “That depends. What do you want to do?” 

“Nope.” She shakes her head. “Not how this works. I don’t want to detract from your trip. I’m just happy to tag along.” 

Ben scratches the back of his neck. “I hadn’t really planned that far ahead, to tell you the truth.” His eyes flick to the fire pit. “But the Valley’s nice this time of day, if you want to go there.” 

“Sounds great.” 

“Cool. On our way back, I was thinking I could grab some things at the store. You mentioned wanting to roast marshmallows.” 

Rey stares at him, blindsided, struck a little dumb. “Yeah, I did.” 

Ben nods, firm. Decided. “Then we’ll do that. I’ll get some chocolate, too. So we can make s’mores.” 

She kisses him. 

Just surges up, presses her mouth to his, and _kisses_ him. 

Ben's response is immediate. He kisses her back. 

Fierce and fervent, like he was waiting for her. Waiting to be brought to life.

His hands clutch at her shoulders, and he bends down toward her, and _he kisses her back_. Kisses her back like he’s been wanting to for ages. 

Rey loses the ability to think. 

She drives her fingers into his hair, tying herself to him. It’s soft and lush and thick, and her fingers curl around it, just this shy of pulling. 

At the nape of his neck, it’s wet. Still damp from earlier. The pool, and their swim. 

She’s swimming. 

God, she’s swimming. Her heart is beating out of her chest. 

Ben’s mouth opens on a groan. Power courses through her as she swallows the guttural sound. 

“ _Fuck,”_ he moans, and she swallows that, too. His hands clutch at her waist. “Fuck, you feel so good.” 

Her fingers tighten in his hair. 

She rises on tiptoe, pressing herself to him as best she can. But there’s just so much of him. So, so much. To see, to touch. 

Her mouth moves, exploring. Discovering and claiming. 

She presses frenzied, sucking kisses along his cheek, behind his jaw. At the hollow juncture there. 

His pulse races under her lips, and hers rises to meet it. 

She’s never kissed anyone like this. She’s never _felt_ anything like this. 

This burning, consuming deluge of more, and yes, and _more_. 

She attaches herself to his neck. Licking, then sucking. He gasps and curses. A full-body twitch. 

It’s not enough. She wants more. 

Aches for more. Aches for _closer_. 

Before she can find the words, Ben hoists her up with one strong arm, shocking her breathless. 

On instinct, her legs wrap around his waist. 

Ben hisses. His free hand moves. It splays across her back, impossibly large, impossibly warm, a brand against her skin. She _burns_. 

She grinds against him, whining into his neck. 

There’s so much of him. So much. 

“I thought about this,” he says, his hand tightening around her ass. “Over and over for days, I thought about this. _You._ ” 

Rey groans. She plants open-mouthed kisses along the curve of his neck. The condensation from her breath is hot on his skin. On her lips. Wet. 

She’s wet. 

So fucking wet. Her legs contract around his hips, and she grinds against him, writhing. Seeking friction, seeking heat, _something_ ahead of her, a wanting beyond speech. 

But then a word does appear. 

“Condom,” she breathes into his neck. 

“What?” he asks, the question guttural and wrecked. 

“ _Condom_ ,” she breathes again, urgently now. “I don’t have a condom, Ben. We need a condom.” 

“I’m clean,” he pants. “The last time I was tested, I was clean. And I—” She grinds into him. “ _Shit_. It’s—I’ve—it’s been a while.” 

“Me too,” she says. She kisses his neck in short, frenzied bursts. “Me too, me too, me too. Still need a condom.” 

“Do you—are you not on birth control?” 

And, no. 

They are not having this conversation. 

Rey pulls back, though it’s difficult. A nearly impossible task. 

“I am,” she says, her chest heaving. “But if we’re doing this, we’re using a condom.” She looks at him sharply. “Are we doing this?” 

He nods, wide-eyed. Vehement. “ _Yes._ Yes, we are. I want to. I like condoms. Condoms are great.” He inhales tightly through plush, kiss-stung lips. “I just—don’t have one.” 

He doesn’t have one. 

And they’re camping. In the middle of the park. Right. 

Right, okay. 

Fuck. 

“But I can go get one,” he adds, just as quick. “At the resort. In their shop. I’m sure they have some there.” He lowers her gently to the ground, then pins her with a look so intense it makes her breath catch in her throat. “Don’t go anywhere, okay? I’ll be right back.” 

Rey shakes her head, feeling unsteady on her feet, but Ben is already stepping back. Away. 

Hurriedly fixing his hair, righting his clothes. 

“No.” 

His fingers still around the hem of his shirt. “What?” 

Rey shakes her head again. “No. No, I’m not just going to stay put. I’m not just going to just _wait_.” 

“Oh.” Ben’s eyes are wide. He blinks. “Oh, okay, yeah. Yeah, of course. That’s fine. Maybe...” He very visibly steadies his breathing. “Maybe we can come back to this later, then?” 

He looks so painfully, genuinely sincere. 

Fondness for him bursts in her chest. 

She smiles so hard her cheeks hurt. “I’m not staying here because I’m going with you, you idiot.” 

Ben stares at her, stunned. 

She steps into him and presses a firm kiss to his mouth. 

Her hand finds his. 

“Come on,” she says, and tugs. “Let’s go.” 

**҉ ҉ ҉**

The resort store is a small thing. A halfhearted tourist trap inside the same quaint building as the hot spring lodge. 

They stock t-shirts and sweatshirts and all kinds of outdoorsy kitsch. Chocolates and rock candies, too. Bottles and bottles of overpriced red wine. 

Both charmed and horrified in equal measure, Rey’s attention wanders, but Ben doesn’t seem to get distracted at all. He marches directly to the back of the store, gently pulling her by the hand. 

A small, wizened old lady with coke-bottle glasses sits behind the register. She’s reading a thick, well-worn paperback; what looks to be a bodice ripper. 

When Ben stops a few feet from the counter, she slides her glasses down the bridge of her nose and makes meaningful eye contact with him. 

“Can I help you, child?” 

Ben stands immobile, appearing to lose his nerve. Rey rolls her eyes. 

She walks past him and smiles, fingers curling lightly around the wooden counter. “Hi there. Do you stock condoms by any chance?” 

The older woman is completely unfazed. “We do, dear. One moment.” 

With surprising dexterity for a woman her age, she hops off her stool, then returns a moment later with a display box containing an impressive selection. 

Rey squints at it before turning to Ben. “Any preference?” 

Visibly rattled, he walks up to the counter and lets out a breath. “Yeah—I mean no. The black box there is fine.” 

The older woman nods, businesslike, and a pink-cheeked Ben pays her a ridiculous amount of money for the small 3-count box. 

Maybe it’s something to do with her pent-up sexual frustration or Ben’s sudden nervous energy, but Rey is only _just_ able to stop herself from collapsing into a fit of giggles when the older woman hands over the condoms. 

They’re in a large plastic bag with a yellow smiley face on it. 

Thank You, it reads. Have A Nice Day. 

The old woman’s eyes twinkle from behind her glasses. “You two kids be well, now.” 

“We will,” Rey says cheerfully. “Come on, Ben.” 

Ben takes a second to leave. “Thank you,” he says, meaningfully. 

Then he turns and grabs Rey’s hand, and he bends down to kiss her forehead, and the next thing she knows, they’re outside. 

The sun is shining, and the air is crisp, and they’re about to have sex. 

She’s about to have sex. 

She grins, giddy and nervous and altogether stupid with it. 

So stupid. Halfway across the gravel parking lot, she hip checks Ben for no reason. A fun, nervous tap that nearly makes him trip. 

She throws out a hand to steady him. “Shit! Fuck. Sorry.” 

Ben stabilizes himself and snorts. “You don’t ever need to apologize to me, Rey.” 

“When I’ve done something wrong, I do. I will.” 

Ben inhales deeply. He wraps his hand around the one she’d used to steady him. His thumb grazes over her knuckles. Soft. Slow. 

Rey’s heart lurches. 

It’s such a small gesture, but she stops, transfixed. 

“I really like you, you know that?” he murmurs. 

They’re in the middle of the parking lot. People pass in ones and twos, heading for the lodge, but Ben’s eyes don’t waver. 

Rey swallows thickly. Blushing, she shrugs her shoulders. “Yeah, well, you’re alright, too.” 

But really, she’s beginning to think he is. 

**҉ ҉ ҉**

The drive back passes slowly, but it does pass. 

Ben pulls into the RV parking, legs bouncing, fingers tapping on the steering wheel, practically _thrumming_ with anticipation. 

_She_ is thrumming with anticipation. 

She wants to jump him. Immediately and now. 

Like hell is she about to have sex in the RV, though. Not with its cold fluorescent lights and stupid shiny appliances. Not when she’s here. Not when she’s come all this way. 

They step outside. 

The trees sway overhead, meeting in a dense canopy. They bracket her, hold her, and as she looks up, her heart rises to their connected branches. She feels like she could fly. 

She pulls Ben down, back to her campsite at the bottom of the sloped path. 

Her tent is small, yes. Hardly large enough for her, let alone a man of Ben’s size, _true_. 

They make it work. 

“Go in first,” Rey says, too far gone to beat around the bush. “I want to get on top of you.” She pauses, considering. “I mean, if that’s alright.” 

“Yeah.” Ben lets out a shaky breath. “No objections here.” 

Rey laughs and flings off her boots. 

Ben quickly follows her lead. 

She hands him the plastic bag, and he bends in half, nearly falling as he enters the tent. He twists, scooting on his back. He pulls off his shirt, then shucks off his jeans and boxer briefs in one fell swoop, kicking them to the side. 

After a moment, he turns to look at her, no doubt wondering what’s taking her so long. 

His mouth goes slack. 

Rey smiles slyly, thrilled. Because she’s taken off her shirt. Has shimmied out of her pants. Is standing there in just her socks and sports bra and underwear. Right there, in full view. 

Ben snaps his mouth shut. 

“Get in here,” he growls. 

It’s not a request. 

He leans up at the waist, knees bent, cock fully erect and straining. Unchecked desire lights his eyes. 

The way he’s looking at her—like she’s _worth_ looking at, like she’s someone he couldn’t _not_ look at—it’s a lot. Both heady and a heart-pounding relief. 

Rey rushes toward him. Ducks into the tent and crawls right on top of him. 

His mouth is on her as soon as she straddles him. 

It’s a kiss as intense as he is. Hot and hard and wanting. 

His hands are relentless. They’re in her hair, on her neck, along her back. Pulling, sweeping, almost like he wants her as much as she wants him, which—it isn’t a thing that should be possible. 

And yet his hands are all over her, like she’s kindling. She sparks at his touch. 

Then his hands are at her back. Over and again, until he’s tugging at her sports bra. Helpless. Ineffectual. 

Rey puffs a fond laugh into their kiss. 

She leans back, throwing the offending fabric over her head. 

Or, she tries to. She means to. But it’s a racerback, and it’s really tight, and it gets stuck around her face. 

She laughs, absurd and shaking with it. Her hands brush the top of the tent, trapped. 

“A little help here please?” she asks. 

“I don’t know,” Ben says. His voice is low. Gravely and deep. “I quite like the view.” 

She laughs again, unable to help it, and feels her tits bounce. “Jesus Christ, Ben.” 

“Amen.” 

“Oh my _god_.” 

“Amen to him too.” 

She finally gets the bra free and throws it right at his face. 

Her aim is true, and it makes Ben dissolve into peals of laughter. The sound rings in her ears. 

He grins up at her, unselfconscious and a little smug. It takes years off his face; a weight off her chest. 

He’s so handsome. 

Pale skin and crooked eyeteeth. Dark hair and dimples. 

She knows she’s staring but can’t make herself stop. Isn’t sure she'd want to even if she could. She cups his face with her hand. 

A heavy breath escapes him. His smile turns questioning. 

Entranced, Rey traces two fingers over it. Along the welcoming curve of it. Soft, featherlight touches. 

Ben shivers. Then he inhales through his nose, nostrils flaring. 

It’s darker in the tent, but not dark enough to explain his pupils. They’re blown black. Charged with heat and devilish intent. 

His lips part. 

Rey inhales sharply as her two fingers fall into his mouth. His tongue grazes, hot and warm, against the calloused tips of them. 

His lips close in, and without ever breaking eye contact with her, he _sucks_. 

Rey feels it in her spine. 

Air leaves her slack, gaping mouth in a rush, and heat moves in to take its place. Suffuses her whole body, dark and thrilling, before settling low in her abdomen. Deep in her cunt. 

She clenches around nothing, and works her jaw. 

Ben still has her fingers in his mouth. 

Her voice trembles. “I want to fuck you now.” 

Ben only nods, sucking her fingers deeper. 

It is possibly the single most erotic moment of her life. The way his cheeks hollow around her fingers. The way his eyes don’t leave hers. 

His hand finds her hip, closing around it, skimming over the elastic of her underwear. His fingers dip under and along that line, teasing and torturous, before he lifts her up and cups her where she wants him most. 

His middle finger flexes, pressing her underwear between her lips. 

She’s soaked. God, she’s soaked. She can feel how damp the cotton is. Can feel him between her folds. 

Feel him press into that damp and hungry hollow. The place inside her that wants more, and more, and more. 

Ben sucks her fingers tighter. He nips at her knuckle, then swipes his tongue against it with tender, loving licks. Messy, enthusiastic. 

It’s a distraction. 

While she’s swaying, arm extended and fingers in his mouth, he finds his way under her thin cotton panties. _His_ finger enters her, stretching her, pressing deep inside. 

He works it further, pushing out and in. Her underwear strains tight, digging sharply into her thigh. And then he crooks his finger. 

Her hand slips from his mouth, and she whimpers, throwing her head back. 

Light shines through the canvas of her tent in a thousand tiny pinpricks. Rey stares, unseeing, as Ben finds a rhythm, curling his finger again. 

Her eyes fall closed. 

She’s so wet. Water is life, and she’s so wet for him. Alive with want. 

Ben crooks his finger against her again. Over and over. Loud and obscene. The sound squelches in the tent like mud under her boots. 

“You are _dripping,_ ” Ben says. His voice is so rough she can hardly hear it. “You’re dripping for me, Rey.” 

Rey nods. She makes a sound in her throat that’s more want than language. 

And then he adds another finger. 

She strains up on her knees, rocking with his every thrust. 

“I want—” she clenches around him, “I want—” his erection nudges, firm and insistent, along the curve of her ass. “I want _you_. Fuck, I want you, Ben. Please. _Fuck_.” 

Ben growls. 

He surges up and kisses her. Breathless, messy, needy. 

Rey’s heart races. She is dizzy with want. _Drunk_ on it. 

She pulls back and fumbles for the condoms. 

Searches around the corner of the tent, knocking aside his shirt, his pants, her bra. Plastic crinkles, and she grabs the bag, shucks open the box. 

“Yes,” Ben says, so low and guttural that she feels it in her bones. “Yes, that’s it.” 

He pulls his fingers out of her, and Rey drops the box, nearly crying out at the loss, because she _is_ dripping. Aching and empty. 

Ben grabs her underwear and makes like he’s about to tear them. Rip them right off. 

Like that’s a thing that he could really do. Like it’s not just something done in movies and books and TV shows, and—shit, he probably _could_ do it. He’s strong enough. He’s about to right now. 

“No,” she says in a panic. The abstract thought of it has her soaking the cotton through, but the reality, _the waste—_ “No, don’t rip them. Don’t. I’ll just—I can—” 

His grip slacks. “Let me help you out of them,” he soothes. 

“Yes.” Rey nods. “Okay.” 

It’s a good idea. 

Seems like a good idea, anyway. Ben’s hands are warm on either side of her hips as he helps lift her, just as easily as he had in the pool. 

But then he turns her around. 

Somehow. Somehow he does it. At some point, she must have helped, must have complied, but she can’t remember the how of it; she only knows that her thighs are trembling, and her underwear is tugged down her legs, and her _cunt_ is lined up over his _face_. 

“Can I taste you, Rey?” 

Her hands claw at the tent floor. She inhales heavily. 

“Just one taste. I can smell you, and you smell so good. _Please_ , Rey, let me have this." 

_Please._

The word is spoken between her parted lips. _Begged._

She nods, tight and vigorous, before finding her voice. “Yes.” 

He pulls her onto his face. 

At his first lick, Rey collapses. 

Her forehead falls to his stomach, solid muscle bunching under her. His tongue delves inside where his fingers had been. Reminds her of just how wet she is. Just how hollow, and aching, and empty. She keens with want. 

And then he finds her clit. 

She cries out, pleasure shooting through her. 

He licks again. 

“ _Yes.”_

She sings with it. Twitching and writhing. 

Her forehead bumps forward with his enthusiasm. Coarse, dark hairs tickle her skin. 

She looks up. 

It’s his pubic hair. His _dick_. 

Hard, and thick, and straining for her. So horribly neglected. 

Of their own accord, Rey’s fingers reach out and trail up the impressive length of it. Grazing, touching. It’s softer than his lips. 

Ben gasps against her clit. 

Rey draws her finger over him again, just as transfixed, just as entranced. He jerks under her, abs hard and flexing. 

He’s _huge_. That’s no surprise. She’s seen evidence of it, and thought abstractly about it, and then directly about it, and then again. A lot. But the rest is new. 

The smoothness. The warmth. How fat and flushed his cockhead is. A deep purply-red. 

She grips him carefully, circling the base. 

Ben moans into her. Precum leaks from his tip. 

The drop is milky white and watery. It slicks down his head, falling like rain. 

And then Ben curls two fingers deep in her cunt. 

Rey’s eyes go wide, and she curses, bucking back against him. Has anything felt this good? 

No. 

No, nothing has. 

They’ve hardly even begun. 

As if to prove that point, Ben crooks his fingers as he sucks her clit. 

Rey’s arms buckle. She struggles to brace herself on her forearms. 

Frantically, she reaches for the condom box and shoves her hand inside. 

The connected foil packets fly out, falling on the ground. Her hand trembles as she separates one, then rips it open. 

She rolls the condom on to his dick while Ben rocks her back steadily, fucking her on his mouth. She is well and truly _sitting_ on his face. 

And it—fuck, she feels so alive. 

The rhythm, the pressure—it’s dangerous. It builds. Unanticipated, uncontrollable. Shocks shooting through her. 

She grips the base of his cock, and attaches her mouth to his tip. 

His hand convulses around her hip. Tightens to the point of bruising. “ _Shit_ , Rey. I didn’t expect you to—” 

She takes another two inches into her mouth. 

“— _Christ_ , that’s good.” There’s a constant tapping pressure in her cunt. Rey thinks he adds another finger. “Fuck, yes. I’m _filling_ you up.” 

She forgets to breathe. 

Her jaw is slack, her lips are spread wide, and she’s hardly even doing anything, really. Just mouthing over him, taking his thick length. The polyurethane is strong and miserable tasting, but all Rey can think, all Rey can feel, is _full_. 

He’s right. She is full. 

He’s filling her up. 

His fingers, all three of them, twist, and something in her shatters. 

She convulses, rippling. Waves and crests. A pleasure that burns like the hot spring, rushing through her to the tips of her toes. 

The liquid heat spreads and swells, and she moans through it, the sound caught and garbled around the cock in her mouth. Her cunt spasms with it, pulsing around his fingers. 

Overcome, her hand falls loose around his dick, dropping to his stomach, and Ben’s hips jerk up reflexively. Another thick inch of him slips into her mouth, nudging insistently against the back of her throat. 

She wheezes around him, eyes watering. 

The last of her orgasm passes, and she remembers to breathe. Remembers that that’s a thing she needs, but is finding nearly impossible to do with his thick cock shoved so far in her mouth. 

She tries anyway, and gags around him for her efforts. 

Ben curses a blue streak. She pulls her mouth off of him, listening to him mutter all kinds of praise and nonsense he can’t possibly mean. 

Tears leak from her eyes, and saliva drips from her mouth, and she wipes both away before taking a deep breath and returning her hand to his cock. 

Ben pushes her hips up. He pants into her upper thigh. “No. No, Rey, if you do that, I’m going to come. I don’t want to come like this.” 

She stops. Her voice, when she speaks, doesn’t sound like it belongs to her. “How _do_ you want to come?” 

His fingers contract. The ones on her hip, the ones in her cunt. “Here,” he says, and crooks his fingers in her, hooking them tight. “I want to come in here. Will you let me, Rey? Will you let me do that?” 

A breath escapes her. “Yes.” 

Ben releases her, removing his fingers. Her cunt aches at the loss. 

Her legs shake as she crawls forward and awkwardly turns in the far too cramped tent, but she gets there. She positions herself over Ben with her hands braced on his chest, her thighs spread wide and hovering, and the blunt head of him nudging against her. Hungry, solid, thick. 

And then she looks up. 

Her cunt clenches, and her heart catches somewhere in her throat, because his face—his face is _ruinous_. 

Wild hair and pink cheeks and lips that are hopelessly swollen and dripping with her. 

Eyes that never leave hers. 

She lowers herself. Slowly, gradually. 

Her eyes never leave his. 

She takes him. All of him. It doesn’t matter that she hasn’t had sex in ages or that he’s by far the largest she’s ever had, she takes him. She’s stretched and wet. Made ready for him. 

A breath leaves her mouth once she’s fully seated, like it’s been pushed out. Like there was simply no room left for it. 

“Perfect,” Ben says, babbling his nonsense again. “You’re perfect, Rey. So tight, and so good, and so goddamn fucking _beautiful.”_

The words are just a byproduct of sex, Rey knows, but she still flushes at the praise. 

She bites her lip and bends forward, latching onto his shoulders with her hands. The change in angle is electric. She rocks forward, moaning, trying to wring another pretty little phrase out of him. 

It works. 

“Yes, that’s right. Like that. _Exactly_ like that.” His large hands grip her thighs, and he drives up into her. “You feel so good. _Are_ so good. So, so good, Rey. _Fuck_.” 

_Yes_ , she nearly says, closing her eyes. 

Sweat beads along her back and slides down her body with each of his hard thrusts. The muscles in his thighs bunch, contract, show no sign of slacking. 

Rey might be able to keep up with his pace if she tried, but she doesn’t. 

She lets herself feel it. Lets herself get fucked. 

“You’re stunning, Rey. All of you. Your tits and your mouth and your tight little cunt. Fuck. Fuck, I like you so fucking much, sweethea—” 

She kisses him. 

Catches the rest of it in her mouth. A sloppy, open-mouthed mess of a kiss.

Ben moans, and she tastes the tang of herself in his mouth. On his tongue. 

His pace picks up, but there’s an unhinged quality to it. Desperate and seeking. Asking, _begging._ For permission and relief. 

Rey gives it to him. “Come, Ben. You've fucked me so good. I want you to come for me.” 

He groans, hips stuttering into her. Once, twice. Pulsing. 

He stills, chest heaving, panting into her mouth. 

Rey starts to pull back, but Ben's arms collapse around her. He hugs her to him, tucking her into the curve of his neck. Lazily, naturally. His arms are a limp weight on her back, and his chest is slick with sweat, and it’s nice. 

Nice, being held. 

She closes her eyes. 

His heart beats rabbit-quick against her ear. Her cheek. Races, just like hers. 

And she thinks— 

She thinks that she could stay here. 

**҉ ҉ ҉**

She doesn't. 

Can't. 

Before his erection fully subsides, she untangles herself and lifts off him, holding the base of the condom while she does. The tent brushes against her back as she scoots over to the side, knees up to her chest. It's suddenly sweltering in here. The air thick with sweat and sex. 

Ben sits up, wincing and hunched over, before removing the condom. 

As he unzips the tent to stash the condom inside the rainfly, a rush of cool air swirls inside. Light does, too. 

Outside, above them, the wind rustles through the trees. 

The conifers dance. Moving, swaying. Staying in place. 

When Ben turns back, her discarded shirt and pants are held loosely in his hands. Damp hair sticks to his forehead, and an angry red mark is beginning to form on his neck. There’s also a smile on his face. A fondness still present in his eyes that scares her. 

Rey accepts the clothes. 

And, cautiously, tremulously, she smiles back. 

**҉ ҉ ҉**

Over the next two days, they go through the rest of the condoms. 

**҉ ҉ ҉**

She doesn’t go to Rialto, obviously. She calls Finn, checking in. Has a good long chat with Poe. 

She sees a waterfall for the first time. Goes on more hikes. Fucks Ben. Shares with him her ramen stash and last can of SpaghettiOs. Fucks Ben again. 

They make s’mores, and she eats them until she's sick. Then she eats them again, for breakfast and for dinner. 

It’s easy, and it’s beautiful, and it’s fun while it lasts. 

But as weirdly as time seems to move when she’s with him, it _does_ move. Fast and slow and often in bizarre ways, but always forward. 

Early Monday morning, she packs up her things. Ben helps her. He’d slept curled up next to her the night before. 

In the parking lot, after checking and securing every last strap on her bike, she takes a deep breath. Puts on a brave face. 

It’s never her doing the leaving. 

She isn’t very good at it. 

“I’m really glad I met you,” she says, embarrassingly sincere. 

Ben’s answering smile is hard to look at directly. She can’t quite manage it. “You too, Rey,” he says. “I mean that.” 

It sounds like he does. Really. Truly. 

Maybe... maybe— 

“You have my number,” she blurts out. “From earlier. The AirDrop. You know, if you—if you want to get in touch later.” 

“I do.” He swallows. “I will.” 

He looks serious. She wants to believe him. 

She wants to. 

She wants to kiss him, too. Still. Now. Maybe always. 

She can't. At a loss for what else to do, she sticks out her hand like an absolute fool. But Ben doesn’t make fun of her for it. He shakes her hand just as hard. 

“Kay,” she says. “Bye.” 

She turns. 

The helmet hides her tears. 

Her bags are packed. Her bike is ready. 

All that’s left to do for her is drive. Again. 

Until she’s— 

**҉ ҉ ҉**

Three-and-a-half hours later, she pulls over to get gas. 

She swings her leg off her bike, unbuckles her helmet, and takes a huge breath of air. 

Deep, filling. One last taste of the countryside before she hits the sprawl of the city. 

And her new life. 

She feels, if not ready for it, then at least excited. Less weighed down by doubt. 

Finn and Poe are waiting for her, as is the city, a room in their apartment, a new job, and _her new life._

Her life. 

She’s heading forward. In that direction. 

She pulls out her phone to plug in her new address into Google Maps, then stops. 

There’s a notification on her lock screen. 

**Today** 8:13 AM  
Rey, it might be too soon to text, but all I can think about is when I’ll get to see you again.  
I’d like to take you to dinner. Or a movie. Or to the Cascades. Wherever you want to go, whenever you want to.  
If you still want to.  
This is Ben, by the way.  


Rey laughs, hand flying to her mouth. 

Tears spring to her eyes, and she doesn’t wipe them away. 

**Today** 11:41 AM  
Hi, Ben  
Yeah  
Yeah, I'd really like that  
Talk to you soon?  
  
**Read** 11:42 AM Ben is typing...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. am. FREE!
> 
> god, this fic was hard to write.
> 
> for all of you stuck inside right now, especially those of you in apartments and city centers, i hope this story is able to bring a little bit of the outdoors to you. 
> 
> if you can, please consider donating to [your national parks](https://www.nationalparks.org/). 
> 
> the world really is a beautiful place.
> 
> i'm [@AllFrak](https://twitter.com/AllFrak) on twitter. please come say hi.


End file.
